


A Battlefield Not of His Own Choosing

by bittenfeld



Category: Mach GoGoGo | Speed Racer, Speed Racer (2008)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Slash, Police Procedural, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-12
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-26 02:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4986724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wanted to get away from the racetrack and delve into X’s employment as an agent with the CIB and Inspector Detector.  And what about the inspector’s past before he joined the CIB?  And maybe X and the inspector have interests in each other beyond the job necessities…?</p><p>A developing-relationship story for X and the inspector, as the inspector’s past comes back to haunt him.</p><p>Final -  Chapter 12:  Detector returns home, and he and X quickly try to make up for lost time, as they solidify their new relationship.  So X does all he can to assist Inspector’s recuperation… especially helping with intense physical therapy…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the characters as they were in the 2008 movie, not the cartoon.
> 
> Also, I like to give a nod to the original, Mach GoGoGo, by including some Japanese flavor.

PROLOGUE:

Rising from his chair, the tall silver-haired Englishman strolled over to the picture window overlooking the lush vegetation of the ranch house’s front grounds. The anomaly of greenery stretched for thirty feet or so, where it ended abruptly at a stone-wall boundary. On the other side of the barricade stretched the southern Utah desert.

The last wisps of day were fading rapidly over the distant sandstone cliffs of Zion Park. Afternoon’s rain clouds had dissipated by now, and the hazeless crystal blue sky promised chill temperatures tonight.

Across the room, the middle-aged Mexican businessman opened the briefcase sitting on the coffee table and carefully laid the manila envelope inside.

“Muchas gracias, mi compadre,” he thanked the man at the window. “Your information is always worth the price. But are you sure that Señor Menton told you everything he knew before he died?”

“Everything I could get out of him.” Alex Tremayne paced back across the hardwood floor to look at his visitor.

The seated man shrugged. “Perhaps you might have learned more,” he suggested mildly, “had your methods of extraction not be so… eficiente, eh? I saw his body after you had finished. Perhaps he could have… offered more, had you allowed him to live a little longer…”

“My methods got you the names and whereabouts of a dozen Federal agents between here and Chihuahua. Eliminating them should keep you busy and your Peruvians happy for awhile. Beyond that, I had a personal account to settle with Mr. Menton, and I settled it. That is none of your affair, Señor Campos.”

“I am merely concerned for your safety now, Señor Tremayne,” Campos allowed. Your enthusiasm might draw the attention of your fellow operativos to you. You are an asset to us. I know that my superintendentes would like to continue to do business with you, and they would be disappointed should you become… incapacitated.”

“Then it would benefit all of us if your people began at the top of the list with the Company agents operating out of Cedar City. Let me worry about the rest of it. I’ve no intention of allowing our mutual business arrangements to be interrupted.”

“Bueno. I am glad to hear it. Because, as a matter of fact, we do have another assignment for you right now, should you be interested.”

“What is it?” From the carafe on the low table, the Englishman refilled their glasses, then sat back down again.

Campos removed a packet from the briefcase. “The Peruvians are experiencing some difficulties with their San Francisco connections. Some of their contacts are obviously policías, but so far they have been unable to determine which ones.” Pulling off the rubber band, he tossed a stack of photographs onto the table before his host. They were candid hidden snapshots of small clusters of people, like surveillance photos – some clear, some too fuzzy for identification, most useable.

“You agentes Americanos all know each other, do you not?” the man remarked dryly. “Perhaps someone here is an old acquaintance of yours, eh?”

His host smiled blandly and reached for the photos. “We don’t know every one. But there are ways to find out.”

CHAPTER 1:

Sensual comfortable warmth settle low in his belly and made its home there. Relaxing back against the large silk cushions on the floor, X indulged in another long sip of the agreeable saké, and pleasantly eyed his dinner partner beside him. The blond man kneeling at the low polished sandalwood table continued to eat his meal in silence.

“Hey,” X urged, nudging a stockinged foot against the other man’s hip, “relax. You’ve been as sullen as a statue all afternoon. Now, c’mon, you invited me up here for some good home-cooking and stimulating conversation, but it seems like I’ve done all the talking tonight.”

Blue eyes flicked in his direction; David Detector said nothing, but took another bite of rice and fish.

X smiled quietly, openly. The saké’s warmth soothed so seductively. “C’mon, David, what’s up? Did I do something today that irritated you? If I did, I’m sorry…”

“No,” the soft voice interrupted. “It wasn’t you. Something came up this afternoon… something I wasn’t expecting.”

“Chief Tremayne getting on your back?”

“No. It’s got nothing to do with the Department. Just something… personal.”

Compliantly X nodded, accepting the other man’s reticence. “Sure. Well, if you do decide to talk, you know I’ll always listen.”

A slight incline of blond head. “Thanks, X.” Then laying his chopsticks neatly beside his plate, Detector took his own cup of rice wine and settled back into the pillows alongside the brunet. “But you’re right. I did ask you up here for dinner and conversation, and I’ve been remiss as a host.”

X continued to smile, and the warmth in his belly wasn’t all from the saké. God, how much he enjoyed this man’s company. Three years of working together, him and Jack and the inspector, sharing pleasant off-duty hours frequently… damn, what a team they made. There wasn't anything any one of them wouldn’t do for the others – and that included the rest of the gang back at CIB.

The intense gaze captured him; beneath the pleasant haze of warm alcohol, X felt himself impaled like a butterfly specimen – and butterflies was what he felt inside, fluttering with anticipation and excitement and undeniable sexual electricity. How often had he considered baring his soul to this man and pleading with him to come to bed and let them both soothe away the hell of the streets for each other. One night – that was all X would ask for… although one night would never be enough.

Yet how often had he forgotten that this man could already read his soul any time, bared or not. That Detector had known his private desires all along, even without X needing to speak – that the silent man knew how to read other silences effortlessly.

The blue eyes softened, lids lowered, gaze shifted from X’s eyes to his mouth.

X felt his muscles go lax beneath the deep scrutiny. The heat inside his body all flowed into his groin, stung his genitals awake. “Oh god, David,” he grinned, excited, and just a little inebriated, “you know what I want. We don’t need conversation after all…”

“I know what you want.” The gaze fixated on smiling lips. “I want to give it to you.”

The words X had desired to hear, had needed to hear, flowed over his consciousness like honey. He slipped a gentle caressing hand onto a black-trousered thigh a mere few inches away. “Then let’s do it, David. Whatever’s eating you tonight, let me take it from you.”

At X’s touch, Detector’s nerves twitched abruptly, and a faint sigh of breath escaped between his teeth. He lay back on the pillows. “I wish you could, X.”

“Let me try.” Fingers trailed up a bare arm to a crisp short-sleeved white shirt, eliciting little goose-bumps in their wake. Hazel eyes twinkled seductively, gravelly voice coaxed softly, “C’mon, David.”

The blond man moved beneath the caresses, as though needing the intimacy, yet fighting it at the same time. And X felt his cock begin to swell at the subtle suggestion of vulnerability, like it did every time Detector allowed him in, or insinuated himself into X’s own vulnerable core.

“David…” – and the name itself was a caress – “oh god, I want you… please… let’s have tonight together…”

David Detector only breathed a long shuddering breath, then carefully removed his glasses and laid them aside. Then slipping a hand beneath the other man’s body, he pulled him over on top so that X straddled him on elbows and knees, two pairs of eyes ascertaining each other. Through their clothing, genitals in comparable states of attention rubbed tentatively. Another deep inspiration, barely controlled, then Detector embraced his dinner guest, one hand cupping X’s firm-muscled ass, the other gripping short brunet hair and pressing the handsome face down for a hard wet kiss.

With a desperate groan of utter dissolution, X collapsed on top of the European man. Every desire he’d ever suppressed toward his supervisor now exploded through his body, searing bone, muscle, nerve. The heavy throb of his heart pulsed in his cock, and he felt it surge to full erection in his pants as it begged for relief. Excitedly their hands moved all over each other’s flesh, trying to touch everywhere at once; two bodies panting, moaning, trying to eat each other alive. Vigorously X humped the hard-muscled thigh between his legs, heedless of the possibility of friction burns to his sensitive flesh. Beneath him Detector squirmed wantonly, rubbing his own steel-hard spear against its neighbor. Two pairs of hands tugged impatiently at obstructive clothing, seeking skin-to-skin contact, nearly yanking buttons off if the fastenings didn’t give way quickly enough.

In a tangle the two men rolled together, on the cushions and on the floor. Now X was underneath, a near drug-like high screaming through his veins, as he writhed beneath the other man’s weight. Gripping the hem of X’s t-shirt, Detector worked it up the smooth torso, trapping X’s arms over his head and masking his face; then took advantage of the brunet’s hampered position to thoroughly molest the exposed chest and belly – stroke, kiss, lick…

Convulsively X’s body lurched beneath the assault. Lips fastened on an erect nipple, tugged at it, while a wet tongue rubbed all around; then raising his head an inch, the man on top whispered a cool breath across the saliva-slick breast.

“David!” X’s shirt muffled the outcry. He tried to free himself, but Detector held him effectively pinned, then pushed a hand down into the fly of tight jeans. “… oh… David!”

Intent upon his task, Detector didn’t answer the passionate incoherencies, but continued his liberties upon his subordinate’s body; reached into the open clothing and found a hefty handful of X’s toys.

“… _gddd!_ …” X gasped, loins thrusting up. A dribble of pre-sem was already oozing from the glans. And then Detector finally released his arms; and pulling the shirt up and off, X watched in fascinated wonderment as the dark-blond head lowered to capture his seeking cock and kiss it gently.

Again hips jerked. Icy tendrils sizzled right through his solar plexus, and the keen sensations drove him wild. He couldn’t prevent a jolt of semen spurting out, grinning to himself as it did so. He hadn't come up this hard – and this fast – in a long time… not since adolescent hormones had raged in his veins… how many years ago? A few white droplets spattered the fair face hovering between his legs.

“David…” he gasped with his last coherent breath, “You don’t have to do this for me…”

“I want to do this for you.” The voice was quiet, breath uneven with barely suppressed excitement. “We’ve both wanted this for a long time.”

Only a grunt of agreement sounded from X’s throat. Incredible sensations threatened to drown him: the feather caresses of short hair brushing against the insides of his thighs, the gentle suction of a warm wet mouth and tongue coaxing his penis. Unable to keep from touching, his fingers tangled in the blondness, both hands, clutching the soft hair to hold his supervisor’s head to its job, while Detector concentrated on sucking him dry.

Because it was their first time together, neither could delay bodily responses with any kind of controlled discipline. Detector’s tongue prodded up the underside ridge of X’s leaking cock; and as the tongue-tip burrowed right there beneath the crown ridge, X gasped a sharp grunt of shock, and squirted everything he had in a powerful surging ejaculation. Quickly Detector covered the shooting organ with his mouth, caught the spurting fluid, swallowed it.

Then sliding back up on top of the other man, he began to thrust roughly between them, ramming his hard aching organ against X’s belly heaving for breath. X could feel the rock-hard shaft thrusting vigorously; a few seconds of intense work, breath rasping deep in Detector’s throat, and the European came, shot his hot load all over the two of them, while powerful shudders claimed his muscles.

They lay there on the floor, weak as kittens, amid the scattered cushions, gulping air and waiting for the world to settle down a little. Viscid ejaculate smeared stickily between their bodies. Gently a hand touched X’s spent tender organ, and moustached lips found a spot to kiss at the base of his throat, kissed and kissed again.

X half-laughed, half-panted a chuckle, reached up to fondle sweat-damp blond strands. Detector’s tongue prodded his flesh, hands slid into X’s short hair.

“David…” X murmured beneath the other man’s weight and sensuality, “I’ll come again pretty soon… if you keep doing this to me…”

“Yes,” Detector agreed simply, undeterred from his exploration. Rolling to the side, he stroked a hand up and down X’s torso, plucked aimlessly at damp pubic hair, then back up to tweak rose nipples, while the overly-sensitized skin quivered at his touch. Hazel eyes flickered pleasure as they took in the good-looking face observing him so intently. As in everything else, Detector was dedicated to detail.

And X reciprocated, tactilely mapping the European’s smooth chest and belly, following delineation of ribs, pectoral swells, erect tits, down to the softening organ nestled in coarse dark curls.

Looking up at the brunet’s face, Detector’s sharp blue gaze mellowed a little now in post-climactic fatigue.

X grinned contentment. “Hey, David, I’ve got a great idea. Let’s do this again tomorrow night… and the night after that…”

The moustache and goatee caressed his face as firm lips kissed the corner of his mouth, and the quiet voice suggested, “I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go upstairs and do it again right now.”

With a yielding shrug, X surrendered willingly. “Your word is my command, Inspector… and I’ve never once disobeyed you…”

“I know,” the European replied succinctly, and taking hold of the other man’s head, inserted a probing tongue into a begging mouth for a deep-throated kiss.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkwardness and a little uncertainty fluttered in X’s belly, as he strolled a few steps closer behind his supervisor. When did concern cross the line into meddling? But if he didn’t say something now, the uneasiness would never go away.

The next morning, after stopping off at the apartment for a change into his leathers, X arrived at the office a half-hour before eight A.M. briefing. As though it was a day like any other, he clocked in, stopped at his locker, left the leather cowl on his desk, dropped by the staff kitchen for coffee and one of yesterday’s doughnuts, then settled down at his desk and grabbed the first case-file on top of the stack.

But today was not like any other, and work was the furthest thing from his mind.

Detector was not in his office; instead, he was probably attending a supervisor’s briefing with the chief.

A warm tingle teased X’s belly at the thought of the inspector. The normally staid reticent man had been more than responsive the night before. What words hadn't expressed, hands and lips and body had. And gradually the shadows which had clouded his earlier attitude had dissipated beneath X’s persistent attention…

Case-file facts and figures on the desk drifted into a blur, as X’s nerves responded again to the memory of what the blond man had done to him long into the night.

True to his word, the European had escorted X up to the loft bedroom, and made slow passio­nate love to him, leaving no inch of skin unstimulated, no technique at X’s request untried. After licking and fondling the brunet back to a desperate of need, Detector had offered himself, and X had mounted him and worked them both into a frenzy until warm semen had jetted into the captive body crouched acquiescently on elbows and knees. And then X had found himself on his back, utterly lax and limp, and his supervisor between his knees, preparing to enter him. With only a little difficulty, Detector had manipulated himself inside until he filled X completely, then pounded to an ultimate ecstasy, draining both of them to the last drop. Afterwards, they had slept until daybreak in a tangle of legs and arms and sweaty sheets, and X couldn’t remember such a relaxing curative rest in a very long time…

“Earth to X, Earth to X,” a familiar voice greeted from behind.

“Huh?” Startled out of his reverie, X looked around to see his partner at the time-clock across the room. Slight embarrassment pinked his face as he felt his cock leaking a droplet of pre-sem in his pants from the night’s pleasant recollections, as though Jack had caught him masturbating. Not that it really mattered – he and Burns had ‘accidentally’ shared a couple of casual friendly nights together in the three years since they’d teamed up – both times in the pleasant inebriated after-office-Christmas-party haze.

Hanging his suit coat on a wall hook near his desk, Jack pulled out his chair and slouched into it, eyed his partner across the desk-tops.

“I said, ‘what’s up, partner?’ Are you among the living this morning, buddy, or shall I just hit the streets alone today and, uh, leave you to rest in peace?”

X couldn’t hide the grin brightening his face, so he didn’t even try to, as he reassured, “I’m alive and awake, and feeling very good this morning, Jack old buddy. How are you?”

“Fine, just fine… although obviously not as fine as you. Listen, is there anything you want to tell me? Like, uh, have you been sniffing something in the property room in the last hour or so?”

“No, not me.”

Grey eyes watched him playfully. “Well, then, either you just won your seventh world cham­pionship, or you got laid real good last night.”

“Sixth,” X corrected, “and we won’t know that until next month.”

“Uh huh. So it must be the lay. Anyone I know?”

“Mm, maybe, maybe not.”

Returning his interest to his coffee cup and the open file in front of him, X attempted to avert any further questions that might make him inadvertently say more than he intended to at this time. There were things Jack didn’t need to know. For that matter, he had to discipline his own mind to drop the matter now so that he could get some work done today and earn his supervisor’s approba­tion. If only he could earn another night like last night…

But Burns had no intention of dropping the tantalizing subject just yet.

“Guy or gal?” he prodded coaxingly.

A sigh of mild exasperation escaped X’s nostrils. “Jack,” he complained, and tossed a file folder across the desks. “Here, if you don’t have enough work to occupy your mind this morning, you can always help me with mine.”

“Just curious, friend.”

Amusement flickered in hazel eyes, but X tried to sound serious as he protested, “C’mon, that’s private info.”

“Yeah, but we’re partners. Partners shouldn’t have any secrets from each other.”

“A few, partner, a few.”

The heat was building again between X’s legs just from this discussion… hell, how was he going to sit in the briefing room with the rest of the team and Detector at the head of the table, and not act like a schoolboy in lust with the teacher?… thank god the leather pants were thick enough and stiff enough in front, or everyone in the office would figure it out in no time flat.

As if on cue, a quiet conservative man wearing a dark conservative suit entered the room. Briefly his gaze noted the two at their desks as he passed through to the ready-room.

“Hey, Inspector,” Jack greeted.

“Jack, X,” Detector acknowledged, without any special indication in X’s direction that they had just awakened in each other’s arms less than two hours before.

And X couldn’t stop the surge of heat that raced through his nerves at the touch of the soft voice; he felt his eager flesh rise to the occasion unbidden, while his heart suddenly decided to trip-hammer inside his rib-cage. God, how badly he wanted to lie between that man’s legs again right now and sink into the intimate warmth of the European’s body.

Maybe tonight. They had made no plans for this evening, so later X would extend an invita­tion for dinner and late entertainment back at the apartment after work.

The briefing-room door closed behind the quiet figure; abruptly X became aware that his partner across their desks was grinning at him, right on the verge of laughing, grey eyes twinkling conspiratorially.

“Detector?” the other man guessed the obvious, and X felt his flush deepen. “You and the inspector?” Delight brightened Burns’ face. “That’s great.”

X’s head dropped in embarrassment. “Jack…”

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Albertson and Ethan enter the office followed by Minx and one of her technicians; and hissed to his partner, “If you don’t mind, would you please not give me away in front of the rest of the gang? Just drop it now.”

Burns’ voice lowered to match his companion’s, but the grey eyes still twinkled devilishly. “Sure,” he agreed, “but I’m not the one who’ll give you away. Good thing that wasn’t part of an undercover assignment – or you’d’ve just blown your cover sky-high when Detector walked into the room.”

“Fuck you too, pal.”

Pink tongue-tip flicked out between lips. “Anytime, partner… anytime. ‘Course I’d have to get Mrs. Burns’ permission.”

A little weary tug of lips. “All right that’s enough, okay? Now that you’ve gotten your morning laugh…”

“Hey, man, I’m not laughing at you, you know that. I think it’s terrific. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.” And strolling around their desks, Burns gently slapped his friend’s shoulder. “C’mon, let’s not be late for briefing. Just take a deep breath now. C’mon.”

“Mornin’, sports-fans,” Albertson’s cheerful voice greeted as he strolled through from the staff kitchen to briefing, one doughnut in his mouth, another in his hand. “Are we having a domestic squabble this early in the morning, folks?”

X followed behind the man. “Nothing that complicated, Frank. Hey, are you sure you got enough to eat? – you wouldn’t consider leaving anything for anyone else, would you?”

Albertson shook his head, mumbled through a full mouth, “They’re stale. I’m just preventing anyone else from suffering.”

“Oh, is that what you call it?”

Detector’s flat voice interrupted the banter. “Take your seats please, gentlemen. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

At the inspector’s serious tone, X frowned, while he obligingly grabbed a chair next to Jack at the conference table. He had hoped that last night’s activities would have relieved Detector’s sub­merged oppressive tension – now it seemed that the tension was back, even stronger than before. Although with the enigmatic man, it was hard to tell. His normal daily countenance was serious; and through years of deep undercover, he was as adept as a masterful actor at suppressing all personal reactions and emotions irrelevant to the matters at hand, and projecting only that which he precisely chose to express.

“There’s been a change in plan,” their commander announced without preface, speaking as he perused and signed reports and memos on the table before him, “A personal duty has arisen for me, which requires my absence for a period of time. While I’m gone, X will assume command of the team.”

Abruptly X glanced up, catching an unspoken hint of something ill-boding and amorphous behind the other man’s words, something he instantly knew he wanted to forestall if he possibly could. A needle of cold anxiousness pierced the comfortable warmth of his insides. Whatever relief he had managed to elicit for his supervisor and for himself while they had shared a warm bed the night before, not a trace of it remained now, not for either of them any longer. Even the familiarity of the previous friendly banter with Jack now dissipated beneath the blunt chill of Detector’s aura.

If Detector noted the effect his pronouncement made on his subordinate, he showed no heed. Eyes still engrossed in the reports and papers at hand, he inquired, “X, what is the status of the Garcia investigation?”

X shook his head clear of the mental meanderings; forcibly dragged his attention back to the briefing. “Nothing solid yet. But word is they’re arranging a drop-off with Cruncher’s boys some­time before the end of the week.”

Glancing up sharply, Detector shoved a couple of papers in Albertson’s direction. “The wire-tap authorization for Garcia’s house and office came through. How soon can you and McCormick set it up?”

Frank shrugged, scanning the judicial notice. “The office we can do today – we’ll just go in as phone repairmen and say we’re checking all the companies in the building for an in-line problem. The house, probably not until tomorrow night. That’s when Garcia and his boys go out for their weekly night-on-the-town, and leave the premises under minimum security.”

“Even so,” Ethan added, “we’d like at least one extra man for back-up when we do it.”

“Take Carter. And don’t wait any longer than tomorrow,” the inspector responded tersely.

Albertson frowned slightly with confusion at the more-than-usual curtness emanating subliminally from the European. “Sure, Inspector. Of course.”

Without a further word, Detector’s attention diverted to the woman sitting across from X and Jack; he passed several folders to her. “The Thompson report is acceptable; the Herrera prelim is not. You haven’t shown criminal intent that the victim was forcibly administered the heroin by her rapist.”

“His fingerprints were on the syringe,” Minx insisted. “And when I interviewed Maria Herrera in the hospital, she was obviously too distraught to tell anything but the truth.”

“She’s a known user.”

“Of cocaine – not heroin. He shot her up with smack, then forced intercourse when she was nearly unconscious.”

Detector ignored the urgency in the black woman’s voice. With a finger, he pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “The DA is going to need more explicit details regarding the victim’s drug habit to prove lack of consent. Otherwise, you’ll have to prove intent by some other circumstan­ces.”

“The girl wasn’t lying, Inspector,” Minx reiterated. “I’m sure of that.”

“That’s not good enough for the DA. You know that. Find more corroborating evidence and re-do your report.”

Shoulders slumping in resignation, Minx acceded grudgingly, “Yes, sir.”

“What about priors?” Jack suggested. “If the SOB’s got a thing for whacked-out teenagers, he’s probably done the same thing before. NCIC oughtta show something on file.”

“Check by M.O.,” Detector reminded succinctly; then moved on to another topic, handing out packets to everyone. “These are your annual 314’s. Fill them out and return them to Division before the 27th. Also, remember that third-quarter firearms quals are scheduled for the next two Saturdays. Are there any questions?”

Ethan raised a finger. “Yeah – has the search warrant come through for the Worthington case?”

“No. However, right now the Garcia surveillance has priority. I want you and Albertson to remain with the van. When the Worthington warrant comes through, Burns can serve it.” Blue eyes shifted over the five people around the table one more time.

“All right, that’s all. You’re dismissed.”

As the others filed out of the room, X lingered behind while the inspector gathered up the remaining paperwork. Concerned gaze studied the other man; then following Detector into his office, X closed the door after them, enveloping them both in privacy.

“You’re leaving for awhile?”

“Yes.” Detector stood in front of his desk, back to the brunet, separating the rest of the papers and files. Some he dropped into an open briefcase, the rest he left on the desktop.

Awkwardness and a little uncertainty fluttered in X’s belly, as he strolled a few steps closer behind his supervisor. When did concern cross the line into meddling? But if he didn’t say some­thing now, the uneasiness would never go away.

. . . . .

( _to be continued_ )


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last night’s butterflies-in-the-stomach had transmuted into dull knife-thrusts slicing into his gut, and the heavy throb of his heart was no longer that of sexual excitement, but rather a nauseating sense of apprehension and ill-premonition…

 

Awkwardness and a little uncertainty fluttered in X’s belly, as he strolled a few steps closer behind his supervisor.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know. It’s impossible to tell.”

For a lingering moment, X’s frown rested on the back of the man’s head, on slicked-back dark-blond hair. Of their own accord, sensual memories resurfaced, memories of the fresh scent and silken touch of that hair against his lips, his chest, his thighs. He could hardly prevent himself from reaching up to finger it once again. Adamantly he fought back the desire.

“David, are you going undercover?”

Now, finally, the studious blue eyes behind dark-rimmed glasses shifted to X’s face for long contact, reacting to the other man’s piercing insight; the quiet voice replied succinctly, “I’m not at liberty to discuss it, X. I’m sorry.”

“DEA?” the brunet pressed. “The Company?”

Detector’s gaze held without wavering, but he said nothing more.

“C’mon, David, talk to me. Something’s going down, and I’ve got a bad gut feeling.” Hazel eyes entreated, asking questions which Detector couldn’t answer. With a shrug of helplessness, X insisted, “If I’m being left in charge, shouldn’t I know what’s going on?”

“It has nothing to do with the CIB. If you run into any problems here, go to the chief.”

Anxiety settle low and heavy in X’s belly, anxiety like he hadn't felt in a long time, not since he’d lost his family (no, not since the family lost _him_ , he corrected himself) – god, if he lost David now… He cleared his throat to swallow past the lump which had suddenly appeared.

“David… about last night…”

Eyes flickering over X’s open pleading countenance, Detector drew a breath, his own expression unreadable.

Warmth flowed over X’s skin as the inspector watched him, as the blue gaze scrutinized him.

Detector moved closer. “Last night can’t affect us now. We both have jobs to do. Personal desires can’t interfere – you know that.”

Frustration sagged the brunet head. “I know.” Stomach muscles tightened around a dull weight. X turned away, his back to Detector. “Damn,” he swore, his voice barely audible. Standing there with his hands in the pockets of his leathers, head tilted back, he could feel his supervisor’s eyes laser into him.

“X.” Detector’s voice was level and even, but compelling.

X twisted his head. Over his shoulder he saw that the inspector had stopped his work and seemed to be waiting. X looked at him, unable to maintain calm as effectively as Detector could, and asked directly, “What happened last night?”

Leaving his work on the desk, Detector strolled the distance between them, gaze cast down, softening the intensity of their communion. “Two friends discovered how much they care for each other.”

X nodded and rubbed the back of his neck. It ached. Everything ached. “Something that’s going to continue?”

“An office affair,” the blond man mused. Sliding hands into pants’ pockets, the European frowned at the black-and-white linoleum floor. “It’s never encouraged. In our line of work, it’s a dangerous liability.”

Carefully X watched him, assessed the near-expressionless visage. “So, was last night just a one-time shot? Do you regret it?”

A hand rubbed over a tired face, smoothed moustache and goatee. “I don’t participate in one-night encounters, X. And if I was going to regret last night, I never would have suggested anything beyond dinner.” Release of breath. “But we’ve both been cops for awhile now. We know the job comes first.” Blue eyes rose, challenged unblinkingly.

Momentarily X matched the stare, experiencing the tension locking them together, a tangle of emotions: desire, worry, concern, need. Then with a sigh of his own, he relented and glanced away, interrupting the confrontation. “Yeah. Yeah, we do. But just this once, I wish we didn’t.”

The briefcase clicked shut. “Now, I’ve got a plane to catch, and you’ve got work to do. Take care of the team for me.” Another glance of blue eyes, then the inspector headed for the door.

A hand clutched his arm. Concern creased the other man’s brow, beneath a feathering of short brunet hair. “At least tell me this isn’t some suicide mission the Company’s called you back for. Tell me you _are_ coming back.”

Sharply-etched countenance softened, fingers brushed X’s hand. “Keep the saké warm for me.”

Then he walked out, and X was left staring after the departing figure. And last night’s butterflies-in-the-stomach had transmuted into dull knife-thrusts slicing into his gut, and the heavy throb of his heart was no longer that of sexual excitement, but rather a nauseating sense of apprehension and ill-premonition…

“Hey, partner,” Jack spoke from the doorway, concern replacing the earlier playful banter as he eyed the tall man. “You okay? What’s going on?”

X’s head shook. “I don’t know.” Face tightened in frustration. “I wish to hell I did.”

“What did Detector have to say?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t say anything.” A tired breath escaped X’s nostrils, and he stepped over to the window.

Down below on the street, a dark blue Plymouth Reliant pulled out of the basement parking garage into traffic; and something inside X wanted to see the vehicle turn around right then and there, end this foreboding mystery… and something inside him knew that nothing would end that simply.

“God, Jack,” he muttered, “I know better than to get emotionally involved, but I’ve got investigative instincts, too. And right now I’m getting damn bad vibes. Whatever David’s involved, it feels like something’s going down real wrong.”

Strolling up behind, Jack watched him through half-lowered lids. “Partner, you _are_ emotionally involved, and you’re broadcasting it loud and clear.”

“So, what’s wrong with that, anyway?” X suddenly demanded shortly.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Jack agreed, “until it causes you to start making situational misjudgments. You saw the way Detector acted this morning. He knows how to handle it.”

“Hell, I don’t even know _what_ David thinks of it.”

A shrug lifted Jack’s shoulders. “Well, I can’t imagine Detector taking it lightly. You know he’s not that kind of guy. He just keeps his perspective balanced – in the end, everything works out best that way – for you, for him… for whatever has called him away today. Trust him.”

“I do trust him… it’s whatever’s called him away that I feel real weird about. And that’s coming from my instincts, not my emotions.”

Grey eyes cautioned carefully, “Just make sure you can tell the difference, okay? Listen, would you like some company this evening?”

Finally X looked back at his partner, intensity interrupted, at least for the moment. “I dunno…” he responded lamely. Then pushing himself into action, he patted the big man’s arm on the way out the door. “C’mon, let’s get back to work. We’ve got some corporate slime to take down.”

* * * * *

( _to be continued_ )


	4. Chapter 4

An hour and forty-two minutes later, the Continental 727 lifted off from runway 9-L at San Francisco International, and headed toward the wisps of high haze drifting along the Pacific coastline.

Glancing out the wing-window, beyond the extended silver flaps and aileron, as the jet circled back into an easterly heading, Detector looked down on the retreating city far below, his thoughts resting on a man waiting down there somewhere.

X’s wash of emotions had nearly been palpable this morning in the briefing room, from vibra­tions of last night’s sexual pleasure and excitement to the sudden dawning awareness this morning that something happening against this will was out of his control, and that he had to stand by impo­tently and just watch it go down. There was nothing Detector could have said, despite everything he had wanted to say. He knew he could trust X – could trust him implicitly – but now even that wasn’t enough. Not since the brief succinct note left on his desk last afternoon.

The enigmatic letter had arrived yesterday via inter-office mail from Division HQ. No one there remembered anything unusual about the messenger who had dropped off the sealed envelope marked only with Detector’s name.

Alone in his inner-sanctum, David Detector had looked over the small note paper lying alone on the bare desk, and read over the three brief sentences once again: _Judas has gone ahead. Am calling in the marker. Come to St. George, Utah._ Beneath that was printed the Spanish word _Sacar_ and a phone number.

Alex Tremayne.

 _Sacar_ had been his code name back in Thailand. Of the twelve commandos in Detector’s DEA unit, Tremayne had been the interrogation specialist. A man good at his job, and the only mem­ber still alive besides Detector.

Now even their CIA betrayer was gone. Gone ahead – to the afterlife.

Although Detector couldn’t say he regretted the news about that particular individual – Dale Menton, a CIA mole who had burned his unit to the Thai drug-lord they were investigating, and set them up for slaughter – the news of his demise had reawakened old pain, old memories of a past which refused to stay dead.

A year ago, Menton had surfaced in San Francisco, still tied after all that time to the drug-lord; four months ago, Kit Evans, the unit’s co-commander, thought dead, had shown up again for a brief but intimate reunion which had ended in abrupt tragedy.

Now Alex Tremayne was requesting Detector’s assistance, and both of them knew that Detec­tor would come.

After the ambush, Tremayne had efficiently gotten him to a Bangkok hospital, filed all the necessary reports with DEA-Washington, and kept the operation on track until Washington had for­mally disbanded the defunct unit and called the two of them home. So now if Alex was calling in the marker, Detector would willingly respond.

It wasn’t difficult to read between the lines of the fourteen cryptic words as to the reason for the call. The Company knew perfectly well how Detector and Tremayne felt about Menton; the fact that both of them had worked in the Company prior to DEA only made the betrayal that much more heinous. And now, whether or not Tremayne was guilty of taking Menton out, the Company was tracking him down, and so he had called an old teammate for help.

Detector had accumulated more comp-time on the books than he would ever use up – now was a good time to use some of it. And no one – not even the chief – needed to know why.

And now, as the jet cruised 30,000 feet over the Sierra Nevadas, Detector let his mind drift from old relationships to new ones: his present unit, whom he’d known for the past three years, a group of people who worked together as tightly as his jungle commandos had; people he cared about just as deeply.

Memories returned of his senior detective, the good-looking man whom the rest of world knew only as the five-time world-champion race-car driver. He had tried eagerly last night to lift Detector’s spirits, taking it upon himself to dissipate the oppressive demons weighing his supervisor down. Even though the demons couldn’t be exorcised, at least they had retreated momentarily from the kind attentiveness, the won­derful hot passion which had filled the night.

His morning shower had sluiced away the night’s sweat and cum, but couldn’t eliminate the lingering sensations of X’s hands on his body, fingers carding through his hair, tongue insinuating itself into his mouth and exploring him, internal muscles squeezing his cock to long-denied ecstasies.

They’d made intense love long into the night, ignoring the reality that tomorrow was a work day, finally slept for a few hours still tangled together in intimate embrace, awoke early in the dark and relieved each other’s morning erections, slept a little more; then, when sunlit day refused to be ignored any longer, X had grudgingly dragged himself out of bed and taken his leave, and David had climbed into the shower. They would have shared the bath too, but if they had, neither would have made it to work on time.

He hadn't had a male lover since Kit, and that had been an eternity of six years ago, and since then he hadn't had anyone at all except his right hand, hadn’t trusted or allowed anyone to get close – until X had come into his life.

And even then, Detector had waited three years before last night.

That was the hell of this line of work, the poison in the fruit: to work tightly with your fellow agents, depend on each other for your very lives, and yet never trust anyone not to turn on you in a heartbeat.

But Kit he had trusted.

And now he trusted X, and who could say what would become of that?

He had barely finished his shower and was toweling off, when the doorbell had chimed. Slip­ping into a short black silk kimono and cinching the obi about his waist, he had padded downstairs to answer the door, assuming it was X returning for some item forgotten.

The man at the door hadn't looked like an intelligence operative. But that was one reason he was so good at his job, and _that_ was one reason he had commanded the Company’s Western Division for the past eight years. Slouched on the doorstep, belly hanging a few inches over his belt, pale eyes appearing slightly unfocussed behind horn-rimmed glasses, Claude McClain looked more like a beer commercial than the top espionage agent in this section of the country.

“Mornin’, David,” the big man had greeted, pleasantly innocuous. “Been awhile, hasn’t it?”

“We’ve both been occupied,” Detector had replied just as non-committally, face bland, while his mind had raced, coldly logical. For his old operator to show up on the tail of Menton’s death was too obvious to be coincidental. So, either the Company had known about Tremayne’s letter – code name or no – and had tracked it to Detector, or he was a suspect himself, and McClain had arrived to take him down.

“Why don’t you invite me in, David?” the older man had suggested. “We’ve got something of mutual interest to discuss.”

Obligingly Detector had opened the screen door and let him in, every nerve and muscle on subtle alert.

McClain had stepped a short way inside, casually glancing over the interior, no doubt taking mental notes for possible future use. Through the sliding glass door across the dining area, the mor­ning sun lit the patio and jungle garden beyond.

“Dale Menton is dead,” the balding blond man had announced without preface, not even look­ing at Detector, not bothering to notice the effect of his statement on the other man.

Detector’s face had remained impassive. “Good,” he had responded bluntly, and had said nothing more. If McClain knew or suspected that Tremayne had already made contact, at least Detector wasn’t going to corroborate it.

“Don’t say that,” McClain had chided, turning again to face him. “We know how you and your boys felt about him. But he was tortured to death. Nobody deserves that.”

A faint shadow had passed over Detector’s expression, but he had made no comment.

“He was on assignment, following a case in Arizona – southern Utah,” the big man had ex­plained. “Three days ago, his body was found in a dry stream-bed across the Mexican border, just out­side Nogales. According to the coroner, he’d been left to die… and that was after someone had done a job on him.”

Empathetic pain had tightened Detector’s belly, and yet he could also remember the screams of his own men, cut down by Menton’s treachery six years before, remember the agony on the face of a friend dying even as Detector had held the man close; and he had very little sympathy left for Men­ton.

He had frowned at his visitor. “So what do you want of me?

Availing himself of a nearby hard-backed chair, McClain had looked up at the lean European man. “Our number-one suspect is your old buddy, Alex Tremayne. He’s been living in southern Utah these day – owns a ranch outside of St. George. We want you to go in. See what he’s up to, and bring him in for questioning.”

“Or eliminate him,” Detector had interpreted bluntly.

McClain had simply shrugged. “Only if you have to. We’d rather have him alive.”

“Why Tremayne? I’m sure a lot of people would like to see Menton dead.”

“That may be true,” the older man had allowed, drawing some items from his shirt pocket, “but how many in Southern Utah are familiar with Thai ritual-torture interrogation techniques?” and he had handed half-a-dozen snapshots to Detector.

Snapshots of Menton – or what was left of him: two of the body staked out in a sandy wash somewhere, four on a morgue table. The torture had obviously been lengthy and thorough, extremi­ties and torso slashed bloody, not just with random cutting but with obvious elaborate pictographs.

A brief flick of hand toward the photos. “Recognize the work?”

“Yes.” He’d seen this kind of cutting before, back in Thailand. Tremayne would have too, but Detector had made no comment about that. Instead he’d retorted, “You have your own people. My Company status is inactive. Why do you need me?”

“You’ve just been reactivated. You can get closer to your old friend than we can. Besides, our people in the area may have been burned. We don’t know if Menton was interrogated as well as tortured, but if he was, he could have said a lot that would put the locals at risk.”

“So, I’m supposed to go in and tie up all the loose ends for you. What makes you assume that I’ll take down one of my own men?”

Again McClain had shrugged. “Don’t sound so self-righteous, David. Look, we know how close your old gang was. But people change – loyalty can only go so far. Evans went over; now it looks like Tremayne’s gone rogue…”

At the mention of Kit’s name, blue eyes had flashed. “Kit Evans never went over, and you know it. The Company lied to me about him – how do I know you’re not lying to me now about Tremayne? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’m telling you everything you need to know. If you can bring him in without taking him down, then that’s all we ask.”

“For you to hold him for trial, or course.” A trial which he’d never live to see.

“Of course.” Hazy blue eyes had suddenly focussed crystal-sharp. “David, you’ve been a player for ten years. Don’t start acting now like you disapprove of the rules. I admit, the Company played a little rough with your DEA unit six years ago; one of our objectives is to prevent DEA probes from jeopar­dizing certain… national and foreign interests. For you to work both sides of the fence is automati­cally going to involve you in a conflict of ethics at times. So what? – that’s up to you to resolve yourself. Right now your assignment is to bring in Tremayne for Menton’s murder, regardless of your feelings for either man.”

Then pushing himself up from the chair, McClain had strolled back to the door. “Report to Charlie Kohagen at the Cedar City field office. He’ll fill you in on the specifics.”

Detector had said nothing, but watched the other man walk away to an unassuming beige 2013 Buick Century parked in front. And suddenly last night’s distraction with X had seemed a very long time ago.

Morning had arrived inexorably, and with it, all the day’s demands. And no longer was there any time for luxuries such as emotional pleasure and union. The demons of duty had snatched back their usurped positions, and Detector couldn’t even let X know what was going on. If he had, X would have insisted upon coming along, which Detector couldn’t have allowed. He had found it nearly impossible not to acknowledge the tall man’s perceptive intuition that something bad was going down. Yet if he did end up going up against the Company, then his badge and his career and pro­bably even his life were forfeit – but he refused to risk X’s as well.

Staring out the window of the plane, he watched the steady progress of the jet’s silhouette across the landscape.

* * * * *

( _to be continued_ )

 


	5. Chapter 5

The summer sun was traveling its afternoon arc toward the mountain peaks on the horizon when the twenty-passenger commuter plane touched down at the Cedar City Airport just a few min­utes after its scheduled 3 PM arrival time. Solar rays painted the conifer hillside a montage of greens and yellows and browns, while clumps of grey and white cloud patches slid across the sky.

The plane played hide-and-seek with its shadow as it maneuvered around the rain-wet tarmac into its assigned parking position. Then the seatbelt flashed off, and Detector stood up and stretched his legs. The trip had been uneventful but boringly long, with a mid-flight layover in Salt Lake City where he’d changed planes for the jump down to the southern-most portion of the state.

He would collect his one piece of luggage, then take a cab into town to Charlie Kohagen’s office. For the night, he’d stay in a motel, then head on to St. George in the morning. If Tremayne had known that Detector was here now, he would probably urge him to spend the night at the ranch. But Detector still didn’t know for certain what was going on, and he had no intention of walking into an unknown situation in a strange place in the dark.

As he stepped down the metal stairs into the brisk mountain air, his gaze cast disinterestedly about the scattering of a dozen or so people waiting on the concrete to greet the arriving passengers. Almost immediately his eyes singled out two men: one, husky with curly red-brown hair and a boy­ish face which would never look a day over thirty-five; the other, lean, tall, and tow-headed. Both were dressed in denim jackets and jeans and boots, just like a couple of local cowboys.

Except that to Detector’s experienced sight, they couldn’t have looked more obvious if they’d been wearing signs around their necks sporting federal stars. Without hesitation, he walked directly over to the duo.

“Which one of you is Kohagen?”

The two men grinned, then the redhead winked and extended a hand. “McClain said you were good. I’m Charlie Kohagen, this is Dale Little­thorn. Part Kiowa, believe it or not. Thought we’d save you some cab-fare, drive you to your motel, and brief you on the way.”

Perfunctorily Detector shook his hand, then the blond Indian’s. They flanked him as the three of them entered the terminal.

“So how’s San Francisco these days?” Littlethorn mentioned conversationally. “Only time I’ve been to California was eight years ago, summer vacation, took the wife and kids to see Disney­land, and the redwoods, and the Golden Gate bridge.”

“It hasn’t changed.” Following the crowd of his fellow passengers, Detector wended his way to the baggage-claim area. “Foggy most of the time. We’ve had quite a bit of rain this year.”

“Well, you’ll feel right at home then,” Kohagen interjected. “This is our monsoon season. I hope you brought your rain gear. Hot as hell during the day, then in the afternoon it clouds up and rains for a couple of hours, then blows over.”

“I’ll try to stay dry,” Detector promised, concluding the routine portion of the conversation as he picked up his suitcase and headed to the parking lot with his escort. “So, what do you have to tell me?”

Kohagen led the way to a wine-colored Pontiac Grand Am. “We reserved a room for you at the Big Ranch Motel. And here are the keys to a company car.”

As they travelled along the main drag, the blond handed him a folder from the back seat. “Here’s the file on your buddy Tremayne. Like McClain probably told you, we need you to go in, collect any evidence, and bring Tremayne out.”

The German flipped through he file. It didn’t say much more than what McClain had told him, and what he’d gotten out of the computer himself after he’d received Tremayne’s note. Some back history, the fact that Tremayne now ran a quarter-horse ranch near St. George, address, phone number. Some photos of an older Alex Tremayne than Detector remembered from six years ago – age had caught up with him quickly – tall and thin almost to the point of gauntness, still-full head of hair but completely silver now. He looked even more the distinguished British lord or diplomat than before.

There were more snapshots of Menton’s corpse in the dry wash, and some of the surrounding area; a few close-ups showing the mutilation detail. In death, the man’s face had frozen into a rictus of agony.

“You’re sure Tremayne is the perpetrator,” Detector queried levelly.

“Oh yeah,” Littlethorn asserted. “We just want you to get some corroboration for us – a con­fession would be nice. You’re his old buddy, maybe he’ll open up to you.”

The European glanced a sidelong gaze over the seat-back. Hopefully the comment had been made in jest, or Company agents were stupider than Detector remembered. He didn’t bother to reply that Tremayne, an interrogation specialist, knew better than anyone not to open up to anybody – especially not to some long-lost buddy who suddenly appeared on his door-step.

“We don’t care what cover you use to get in. Tell him you’re on vacation and saw his address in the phone book – whatever. We’ll be down in St. George at this phone number, to back you up if you need us. But until you call, we’ll stay out of your way. This is your ball-game.”

With half his attention, Detector watched the businesses and houses whisk by, as the Pontiac navigated through the small town. A change from metropolitan San Francisco.

“What was Menton doing near Tremayne?” he probed. “What reason would Tremayne have for taking him down?”

Kohagen steered onto a side street. “Menton was on assignment out of our office. Somehow Tremayne must have discovered him and trapped him.”

“Why?”

The Company man shrugged. “Retribution of the Mae Sai incident, what else? For what he did to your team, you probably wanted him decommissioned as much as Tremayne did. Hell, we’d suspect _you_ , if you’d had the opportunity, but you didn’t. Kind of ironic now, isn’t it, that you’re the one being sent to investigate his murder?”

Detector said nothing.

Pulling into the parking lot of the Big Ranch Motel, Kohagen stopped the sedan behind a green Dodge standing in Room 38’s stall. “There’s your car, you’re already checked into the room. Across the street is Jerry’s Corral – best steak-house in town. What d’ya say we meet over there for dinner about six, and finish up the briefing then?”

Detector merely nodded terse acknowledgement.

But later as he lay in bed, he considered that what they were pleased to call a briefing, he more bluntly pronounced a smoke-screen.

They hadn't answered any of his real questions, and obviously had no intention of doing so. _What aren’t you telling me?_ he had questioned, and they had mirrored the same bland rationale as McClain… and practically his words as well: _you know as much as you need to know, and just give us a call when you want back-up or when you’re ready to come in._

Well, maybe Alex had killed Menton, or maybe he hadn't. And if he had, maybe it was be­cause of Mae Sai, or maybe it wasn’t.

But for all they wouldn’t reveal, he had his secrets too.

They didn’t seem to be aware of Tremayne’s note to him, and he wasn’t about to enlighten them that his real reason for being here was that message, and not the Company assignment.

After dinner, he had returned to his room, but then went out again to an all-night convenience store a little distance away, and called Alex’s number from a pay-phone there, to leave word on the answering machine of his arrival. He wouldn’t put it past the Company one bit to bug the motel room, so he did nothing of import there, but took a shower and went to bed early.

But even as he lay there, his conscious mind pounded at him: _what piece of the puzzle hadn't he been given? And why?_

Finally he drifted to sleep, and dreams replaced the demanding questions: dreams of a tall brunet lover with laughing hazel eyes and firm muscular thighs and a hot tight ass which gave him pleasure several times throughout the night.

* * * * *

( _to be continued_ )

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack decides it’s up to him to get X to relax, so he offers a little treat…   
> The big man grinned. “But, it’s one time only, so, uh, don’t get used to it or anything.” “Don’t worry, I won’t,” X assured, “as long as you don’t start the flowers and candy routine.”

“Time to go home, partner,” Burns urged, peeking into the inspector’s office where X slumped at the desk half-going over reports and half-dozing. Only the desk lamp illuminated the room, diffusing the night-darkness. Through the thick glass-tile wall behind the desk glowed a multi-colored montage of city lights from the street outside.

Disturbed from his light sleep, X squinted up at the interloper, then slouched back in his chair and tossed his pen down on top of the report pile, not trying to pretend any longer that he was really getting any useful work done.

“What time is it?” he muttered, glancing up at the clock on the wall, even as he spoke.

“It is twenty-two-fourteen. Bed-time, pal. C’mon, hang it up and call it a night for tonight. Everyone else is long-gone.”

A tiny twinkle glittered in grey eyes; then strolling up behind the seated figure, Burns lifted a hand to casually finger the little nape hairs wisping over the high leather collar. At the touch, X started slightly, then settled back into the friendly advances. The finger stroked his hair; then bend­ing forward, Jack dropped a tiny touch of lips to the exposed skin behind X’s ear.

“Hey, what are you doing?” X half-complained, not too vehemently.

Burns only smiled, prodded the spot with his tongue, and continued to trail his touch through the hair at the other man’s nape, voice breathily provocative.

“I’m trying to give Detective X a good excuse for laying aside his paperwork now…and get­ting his mind off police business…and onto another kind of business…”

Emboldened by X’s acceptance so far, the big man began to touch elsewhere. “C’mon, part­ner, relax. Let it go now. You’ve been wound tight all day.” Sensually the gentle hands slipped from thick shoulders down over pectoral swells, rubbed tiny circles through the leather against soft nipples until the little nubs came erect. A slow intake of breath hissed between X’s teeth. Burns knew exactly what he was doing.

“Jack…” X murmured his partner’s name, either as a protest or as encouragement – he wasn’t sure himself which.

Burns chose to interpret it as encouragement, and continued to massage the nipples through the leather. Abruptly X squirmed as tiny jolts of electricity zipped from the stimulated nerves down to the lower part of his abdomen.

“Jack!”

Sensual lips nipped an ear. “That’s me, partner.” Palms slid over pecs, slid deeper to explore the warm muscular torso. Physical touch worked like magic, and neither participant could ignore its magnetism, though X put up token resistance.

“C’mon, Jack,” he reminded, “y’know, come morning, we’re not going to be able to blame the spiked Christmas punch.”

“Nope,” Burns agreed, “for once, we’re not.”

“Well, what about your wife?”

“Partner, you and I are as much married, as me and my wife. One time won’t hurt. And any­way, this is nothing more than therapeutic relaxation.” The big man grinned. “But, it’s one time only, so, uh, don’t get used to it or anything.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” X assured, “as long as you don’t start the flowers and candy routine.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, partner. And don’t expect diamond earrings either. My wife _would_ blow a gasket over that, if you got diamonds, and she didn’t.”

Pushing his chair away from the desk, X finally surrendered. “All right, since you’re obvi­ously not going to leave me alone and let me finish my work, and the janitor might to walk in on us here, c’mon, let’s go back to the apartment and take care of your overactive hormones, lover boy.”

“Mmm… now that sounds more like it,” Jack murmured, and a flirty little look wrinkled his nose as he stole one more kiss against his partner’s neck.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The coastal route, Montrose Avenue, was easy travelling north this late in the evening, and the traffic lights were with them most of the way, as they covered the twelve-point-seven miles between CIB and the apartment in the suburbs. Deftly maneuvering the sports car along the route, X glanced up every now and then, to see the headlights of Burns’ ‘99 Chevy keeping up. Burns was good behind the wheel, an excellent evasive driver – and X considered that he might have had a strong career in racing, had his interests fallen that direction. But the hefty man – a couple of inches taller than X’s 6’2 frame, and a good sixty pounds heavier – just shrugged it aside – “never be able to fit in the cockpit like you skinny guys.”

X liked Burns, liked him a lot… hell, loved him. But tonight he wanted David. Just like he’d wanted David last night, and all day today. God, how could one night of passionate love-making do that to a relationship?

It was different with Jack. Jack was his partner. They worked well together, minds clicking together in synch, personalities playing off each other smooth as silk. And Jack was right – a good partner was like a brother, a spouse, a second self. And if that included cheering up a partner’s moodiness, well, so be it. X had tried to do the same for a certain inspector twenty-fours hours before… god how he wanted David tonight…

Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Jack over after all. It wouldn’t be fair for X to agree to this, and yet be fantasizing about someone else while Jack gave his all to the situation. Even though he and Jack had never agreed on any heavy commitment – but of course, neither had he and David.

“Listen, you got anything stronger than beer?” Jack questioned, as X unlocked the door. “We could both use a nightcap.”

“You know where I keep it.” A half-hearted wave toward the kitchen. “Fix something for yourself if you want, nothing for me.” X’s voice carried a faint edge, as though the thin veneer of comradely repartee was beginning to wear thin.

The vague tension was not lost on Jack. A minute and a half later, he brought back two glas­ses to the bedroom where X was unzipping and climbing out of his leathers. The outfit got tossed aside, along with the boots, and X sat on the bed, stripped to t-shirt and undershorts, back against the headboard, one leg out straight, the other drawn up with a forearm resting on a bent knee. The bed­side lamp cast a dim yellow glow about the area.

“Here,” the big man announced, handing over one glass, and making a spot for himself at the foot of the bed. “Screwdrivers for both of us. Drink it, and talk to me. You’re really not in the mood for any, uh, physical activity tonight after all, are you?”

X shook his head silently, not quite sure how to admit that, yes, he was in the mood, but thinking about another partner, not the one sharing his bed right now. “Not really, partner, not to­night,” he apologized, feeling a little guilty.

“Sure, partner, that’s cool,” Jack sympathized, tossing his sport-coat aside along with X’s discarded garment, and loosening his tie. “Listen, you want to talk about the inspector?”

Bright hazel eyes glanced Jack’s way, followed by a look of surrender. “Yeah,” X breathed a deep sigh. Frustration wrinkled his brow. “Dammit, Jack, I’m not just acting out of emotion. There’s something going on that he wouldn’t tell me about. Hell, I’m his senior detective – what couldn’t he tell me?”

Burns shrugged. “Maybe he’s on some undercover assignment,. Y’know, none of us really knows anything about him outside of the office, except that he came from the Feds. Maybe he’s working for them again. Whatever it is, you know he’ll come back when it’s over.”

X’s head tilted in an expression of doubt. “I don’t know, partner,” he mumbled, unconvinced, and stretched his legs out so that his stockinged feet touched Jack’s thigh. “Of course, you figured out about last night…”

“Yeah.” With a smile, Burns shifted his position closer, and drew X’s bare lower legs onto his lap. “About time, too. Anyone with eyes could see the sparks between the two of you years ago.”

Inadvertently X’s leg pressed against the obvious bulge in Jack’s pants, but neither of them moved to break the intimate contact.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” the brunet insisted, with a sharp frown. “Why wait all these years, then suddenly do it the day before he leaves on some secret mission? Like there might not be another chance. Like maybe he was… saying goodbye.”

“Hey, no,” Burns quickly contradicted. “C’mon, you’re probably just reading into it. You know how Detector intensifies any scene with just his presence.”

But X shook his head. “That’s not it. He said it had nothing to do with the CIB, so I’m bet­ting DEA or the Company. The question is why? Why would the Feds call him back? They’ve got enough of their own people.”

“Buddy, we don’t know that for sure. I dunno – if they did call him back, maybe it has some­thing to do with some old business. There’s a whole lot about those days that he’s never shared with us.”

X nodded slightly. “Yeah,” he murmured, half to himself. “You get the feeling there’s a whole lot about those days he’d like to forget.”

Sensuously working fingers massaged tight calf muscles. “C’mon, friend, let it go for now. Whatever’s going on, there’s nothing we can do about it anyway. Sticking our noses in where they don’t belong could only make matters worse, and might jeopardize the inspector.”

Beneath the coaxing touch slipping up to the sensitive areas behind knees, X squirmed to a lying position on the bed. “I know,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “I’m not going to compromise him. I know better than that. It’s just that it’s hard to sit back and do nothing.”

“I know,” Jack smiled quietly, continuing to rub his partner’s calves. “Hey, the inspector’s gonna be okay, all right? He knows how to take care of himself better than anyone else I know.”

“Yeah.” A relenting tug of X’s lips; then he reached over to casually rub his fingers over the other man’s forearm. “I guess.”

Responding to X’s gradual yielding, Jack moved his interest to the other man’s thighs, began stroking hard flesh, carefully stealing closer to a vulnerable groin. At that, X made a little noise and lolled his legs a little further apart on the welcome lap, tightened and relaxed the muscles, tightened and relaxed.

Then gripping his partner’s arms, X pulled the big man toward him. “…what the hell, c’mon, Jack,” he acquiesced and urged him on top.

With a moan of delight, Jack slid into position. “Now that’s more like it,” he announced; and resting forearms on either side of a brunet head, descended a firm kiss onto faintly smiling lips. “C’mon let your old partner help you relax, what d’ya say?”

A responsive sound rumbled in X’s throat, while his strong hands gripped hard-muscled but­tocks which slowly, sensually, moved in a circular motion over him. Squeezing two captive cocks be­tween them; he could feel Jack’s stimulating his own with little zaps of sensation. For several minutes they humped together in their clothes, breathing roughly, playing tongue-to-tongue, straining muscles against muscles. Heads rolled together, while lips and tongues explored wet mouths and any­thing else they could reach, shared the taste of vodka and orange juice.

Rising from the body beneath, Burns straddled slender hips, knees squeezing pelvic bones. Tie got tossed aside, then white shirt, and belt; fingers quickly unzipped the slacks’ fly. Not so subtly his crotch moved against X’s bulge, and X could feel the bulk of soft testicles pressing between them. The movement obviously felt good to Jack too, because a look of dreamy pleasure clouded his eyes, and he squirmed his hips again slowly, while pulling X’s t-shirt up and off the lightly tanned body. Letting his hands explore X’s hairless chest, Jack slid warm palms over pectoral swells, flat belly, then back up again to pinch firm little tits between rough thumbs and forefingers.

With a moan, X closed his eyes, arched up into Jack’s hurting caresses, nipples hardening beneath the pleasure-pain, and cock respon­ding vicariously. Again the hands stroked his body, examined rib delineation, ster­nal valley, abdomen, down to the elastic waistband of undershorts. And in the growing excitement, he couldn’t help but breathe his lover’s name in a sigh: “… yes… oh David… yes…”

And lift-off aborted with a dull thud.

With a laugh, Jack dropped his hands away. “Hey I know we have the same color hair, but other than that we don’t really look alike, y’know – he’s got a moustache, and I don’t. Plus I’m twice his size!”

X’s face pinked with embarrassment. “God, I’m sorry, Jack!… I’m not batting a thousand today, huh?”

Jack grinned. “Buddy, you’re not even the ballpark today.” And climbing off to gather up his scattered clothes and re-dress, he acknowledged with a pat to X’s leg, “Listen, you sleep tight, and I’ll see you in the morning… partner!”

* * * * *

( _to be continued_ )


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detector arrives at his friend’s ranch.
> 
> Detector strolled over to peruse the china cabinet. Among the Asian curios, nestled half-a-dozen dogtags, and a sting burned his eyes as he read the names. The past was no more dead for Tremayne that it was for him.

After breakfast, Detector drove the hour’s distance from Cedar City to St. George. Tre­mayne’s spread lay a few miles to the northeast, near the tiny town of Hurricane and Zion National Park. By the time he arrived at the ranch house, the sun was already promising another ninety-degree-plus summer day, and Alex Tremayne was waiting on the long wooden porch when the Dodge pulled in.

“David Detector,” he greeted with a wide grin as the European man stepped out of the car parked on the gravel driveway beside his own Jeep. “David.”

“Hello, Alex,” Detector smiled, climbing up the steps, and clasped both hands with his old friend. For a lingering moment they just drank in the sight of each other, assessing the effects of six years past.

“We’re getting older, David,” the tall, silver-haired Englishman admitted, still returning Detector’s grip, a glint in pale blue eyes.

“At least we’re still alive to get older,” Detector reminded.

The other man nodded, and his smile waned a little pensively at the memory of their fallen comrades back in the Thai jungle. Then a nod toward the front door. “Come in, David, we have six years to catch up on.”

The adobe walls insulated the interior of the house from most of the desert heat. Southwes­tern artifacts decorated the floors and walls, with the exception of a china cabinet in one corner of the living room which displayed assorted curios from their days in the Orient. One the other side of a partially dividing wet-bar lay the dining room, dominated by a large maple table ringed by half-a-dozen matching chairs. The north wall was completely glass, over-looking the back grounds, and Detector strolled over to stare out at the scenery.

About five miles east, the sandstone cliffs of Zion stood against the blue summer sky. Right now the sky was cloudless, giving no hint of the promised afternoon shower.

Tremayne joined his observation. “A long way from Thailand.”

“It was a different world,” Detector agreed.

With a grin at his old partner, the Englishman grazed an elbow against him. “So, what made you decide to settle down in the San Francisco area? I’d have thought you’d seen enough humidity to last a lifetime.” A jerk of head to indicate the desert expanse outside. “I certainly did. I vowed never again to put up with mildewed undergarments for the rest of my life.”

Beneath neatly trimmed moustache, the corners of Detector’s lips tugged upward. “I suppose since I was used to it, I could put up with it a little longer.”

“What – mildewed undergarments?” The man winked at him. “Well, it’s jolly good to see you again.” Hands in pockets, he strolled back to the sitting room, Detector following, and paused before the smaller picture window looking out over the front view. “Have you kept in touch with Kit, by any chance, David? I’ve often wondered how he was getting on.”

At the mention of Kit Evans, Detector frowned in pain, and old memories washed over him as though they were fresh; standing over his friend’s body on the polished granite floor of the Buddhist temple, pistol in hand, the scent of sandalwood incense polluted by the acrid smell of burnt gunpow­der….

His gaze dropped to the hardwood floor, and he announced flatly, “Kit is dead.”

Tremayne snorted understanding. “The last I heard, both the Company and the KGB were tracking him. So, which one finally took him down?”

“Neither,” Detector responded reticently. “He died in San Francisco six months ago… he had metastatic cancer.”

“Bloody hell.” Alex Tremayne shook his head. “Beastly ending – especially after all he’d survived. Well, at least neither side got to lay their claim on his skin.” He tossed an empty smile at his visitor. “So, it’s just you and me left now, David.”

Detector nodded. “Yes.” The quiet tone of his voice didn’t shift then, as he asked suddenly and frankly, “Did you kill Menton, Alex?”

Tremayne’s smile widened into a grin at the bland off-hand interrogative designed to catch him unaware; but he didn’t even try to prevaricate. “Of course.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that night. I still jerk awake from night­mares. Surely you remember Joaquin Montero – the chap who intercepted a grenade and got his legs blown off in the process? He bled to death in your arms.”

Detector’s face tightened in graven relief at the same vivid memory which he had relived him­self too many times to count. “I remember.”

“And what about Jonny Greene and Isaac Freeman, and all the others? I decided a long time ago to track down that faithless little bastard and give him some of his own in return. What’s wrong with that?”

“You know what’s wrong with that.”

Tremayne merely shrugged. “So, did you come here to scold me or to help me, David? Sooner or later the Company is certain to send someone after me. I need assistance, not a lecture on theoretical morality.”

“I’m here. What do you need?”

The ring of the phone sitting on the end of the wet-bar interrupted Tremayne’s response. A wave of a hand toward a cluster of bottles on the counter as he lifted the receiver. “Fix yourself whatever you’d prefer, and I’ll explain.” Then he answered the phone with a terse “Tremayne here.”

Opening a decanter of bourbon, Detector poured himself half a glass while Tremayne paced behind him. A swallow slipped down warm and smooth, a rich taste with a nearly undetectable but unusual almost cinnamony undertone.

“… no, that’s fine, José… no, no problem… It’s just an old friend visiting… I’ll ring you if I need anything, thank you.”

Another sip, very mellow.

Tremayne’s voice rose a little. “Listen, check on the bay gelding, would you? I’m concerned about his left rear hoof. Armando thought he was favoring it last night, and the buyers may be stop­ping by later today, so I want him in good shape.”

Detector strolled over to peruse the china cabinet. Among the Asian curios, nestled half-a-dozen dog­tags, and a sting burned his eyes as he read the names. The past was no more dead for Tremayne that it was for him. One more swallow emptied the glass, then David started to turn back toward his host.

But as he did so, a sudden vertigo washed over him and blackness bellied up before his eyes. Drug – the bourbon had been drugged, that was the slight off-taste he had sensed, and yet so subtle that it hadn't alerted him to not drink. A fast-acting soporific – he staggered to reach the sofa just two steps away, but even that was too far. With a grunt, he stumbled and fell, thudding his face against the edge of the table, and the back of his head against something hard, as the glass dropped from his fingers to clatter on the floor. His last thought, as he fell into coruscating blackness, was to curse his own stupidity as to lower his guard for even a moment.

Then unconsciousness swept everything away.

* * * * *

_(to be continued)_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends are not always what they seem.
> 
> Impotently Detector tugged his strapped right hand. “You’ve secured me for a drug interrogation. What do you expect to get from me, and does it have something to do with Menton? Are you planning on torturing me as you did him?”

A thudding ache in the back of his head dragged him back to unwelcome consciousness. Blood from a sliced eyebrow trickled down the corner of his eye on little insect feet. Vaguely he wondered if his skull was cracked. Abraded knees and elbows – and everything else – hurt from his impact with the unforgiving hardwood floor and whatever furniture he struck. At least his mind felt relatively clear, with very little lingering mental haziness.

He tried to reach a hand up to his pounding head, but something restrained his arms. Pain­fully he blinked his eyes open. His glasses were missing, but he could make out well enough.

He was seated in one of the heavy maple dining room chairs, wrists bound to the chair arms, right hand secured with velcro straps. In front of him, Tremayne sat facing him, one hip perched on the edge of the table. Beside him lay Detector’s wallet, car keys, glasses, shoulder holster and gun, plus a few other items from his pockets, as well as a small recording device. His jacket lay folded neatly over the back of the chair beside him.

“Welcome back, David,” the Englishman greeted pleasantly.

And an old memory tormented Detector, a memory of a similar situation six years old… in the Thai village a few weeks before the savage ambush, captured by the Thai drug-lord, secured in another hard wooden chair, choke-noose cutting off his air, sharpened bamboo slivers being driven under his fingernails… even now the old remembrance squeezed his belly icily. Back then, Tre­mayne, along with the other team members, had risked his own life to rescue David.

But now ironically, it was Tremayne himself who had Detector bound and helpless. And this time, nobody was coming to the rescue.

The man leaned forward to palpate the lump on the back of Detector’s head, and thumb the cut on his face.

“Sorry to have to do that to you, old boy, but I don’t believe anything is fractured. You should be quite alert now. That drug is very fast acting, but it dissipates quickly. It’s by far the method of choice to incapacitate someone quickly.”

The gentle probing made Detector wince, and he pulled away from it, then settled back to eye his captor with sullen intensity. Anger slitted his eyes, and he suggested coldly, “Forget the concern, Alex. Just tell me whatever it is you’ve neglected to tell me so far. There’s more to Menton’s death than simply the settling of the old score, isn’t there? What is it?” Impotently he tugged his strapped right hand. “You’ve secured me for a drug interrogation. What do you expect to get from me, and does it have something to do with Menton? Are you planning on torturing me as you did him?”

With a shake of his head, Tremayne smiled. “No. Menton deserved every cut I gave him and every minute of pain I allowed him to suffer. But not you, David. Don’t worry. I suppose old friendships count for something, eh? At any rate, you’re correct – I didn’t kill Menton simply over that little stunt he pulled off six years ago – although he deserved it, and you or I or Kit should have taken him out of the game years ago. Actually I removed him because he has been investigating certain… business arrangements which I’ve developed in the past two years with some chaps in the Southern Hemisphere.”

Lips pulling into a wince, Detector frowned at his old team-mate. “Have you gone over, Alex?”

The man simply shrugged. “Isn’t that just a matter of terminology? What does it matter which side pays us? I’m doing the same work I’ve always done: interrogation and intelligence gathering. It’s what I’m good at, and at the moment, certain South American businessmen are willing to pay for my services and my inside knowledge of Company and DEA tactics to facilitate their flow of merchandise into this country. Menton was still allied with Lao Li, under Company auspices, and the Thais were attempting to siphon off a portion of the South Americans’ business. I got informa­tion from him, plus the names and whereabouts of numerous Company operatives.”

“You’re selling out other agents,” Detector snapped scornfully. “You’re no different from Menton.” In disgust he looked away, tugged half-heartedly at his bonds. Muscles ached all over from his tumble. “You still haven’t said what you want from me.”

Davidson was still smiling. “Very well, David. What I actually need from you is some infor­mation about your own organization in San Francisco – the CIB. And I thought it best to separate you from your people so that our… friendly conversation… wouldn’t be interrupted.” Again he touched the bleeding cut over David’s eye to examine it. “You see, a certain group connected with my South American friends, is the Peruvian cartel,” – at that, Detector’s head jerked up slightly, blue eyes tightening in a sharp gaze – “Besides bringing their shipments into the southwestern United States via Mexico, their sister cartel, the Peruvians, conduct its business in California. Recently they have been experiencing quite a bit of pressure from your department, so they requested my interven­tion.”

A cold weight settled in Detector’s belly. “I’m not going to burn my people or their opera­tions.”

“Not intentionally, no,” the other man agreed. “That’s why I’ve set you up for the drug inter­rogation. You won’t be able to help yourself.” From an inside jacket pocket he withdrew a hypoder­mic syringe and a small vial of solution.

David stiffened in his bonds, blunt anger setting his face. He tried to free his arms, even though the ropes, wound around and through the chair-arm spindles, were too tight to slip.

Tremayne watched the futile attempts with amusement. “I’ve told you I won't torture you, David, as long as you don’t make it necessary. If you’ll coöperate, I promise to make our discussion as painless as possible. This is just a small dose of sodium pentothal; it will simply relax you and put you in a light daze. Afterward, you won’t even remember everything that we discuss. It’s really as gentle as I can be.”

Detector’s tight expression didn’t change. “And then you plan to kill me, don’t you? You can’t afford to let me go.”

“I’m afraid that’s true, David.” An off-hand shrug. “After we’ve finished, I’ll inject you with a larger dose of the pentothal to put you into a deeper sleep, and then lidocaine to stop your heart. You’ll simply drift to sleep and never wake up. That’s a far cry from what I did to Menton.”

“How do you intend to hide my body? Don’t you think someone will come looking for me shortly?”

Tremayne’s lips tugged into a smile. “Really, David, I’m ashamed that you have such little faith in me, as well as you know me. You know how good I was at covering our tracks.”

“McClain already suspects you killed Menton.”

“McClain?” A note of surprise, but then the smile transformed into a full hearty laugh. “Claude McClain? The old bastard! He sent you here? Is it you whom the Company sent to take me down? Oh, that is indeed rich, David. Well, then, I guess we each had our little secrets, didn’t we?”

Detector watched him. “When I don’t report back, a task force will be sent in after you, Alex. You can’t get out of it. By trapping me, you’ve trapped yourself. Untie me, and let me take you in. It’s the only chance you have.”

A smirk. “I would have no chance at all if I let you take me in, David. You know that as well as I. But thank you for the warning. I already devised several escape plans after I dispatched Men­ton, ready to implement at a moment’s notice. Now, I’m sorry, David, I truly am. But business is business.”

Deep inside, a heavy pain twisted slowly into Detector’s gut, ice-cold and brittle; adrenalin surged into his bloodstream. Physical aches throbbed in his body, increasing in intensity, yet a men­tal anguish, worse than the physical ate at his mind. He wasn’t afraid of death – he’d lived too close to it for the past ten years to be afraid. But to get caught so easily… damn his foolishness for falling into this situation. However, now was not the time for useless emotion. Adamantly he set himself to resist, even thought it would do little good against the irresistible coercion of the drug.

“Why try to fight it?” the Englishman commented, watching the cold calm solidify on the European’s face, while he uncapped the needle and inserted it into the vial. “You know it’s useless. You’ll remember I conducted numerous drug-interrogations on prisoners back in Southeast Asia. Did you ever know me to fail to extract the desired information?”

Detector said nothing. He tried to struggle, tried to prevent the man from injecting him, but his right hand was strapped down securely, and he could only watch in sick horror as Tremayne gently tapped bubbles out of the syringe, then chose a prominent dorsal vein, and inserted the needle. At the little stinging nip of pain, David’s hand twitched involuntarily. Slowly the man pushed the fluid into the vein, despite Detector’s exertion, then pulled the needle out and pressed a finger over the tiny puncture wound.

Then he looked up into Detector’s face, casually unconcerned with the cold rage in piercing blue eyes.

“There now, that should take effect in just a minute.” Still holding David’s hand, he reached into his jacket for an envelope, continuing to chat conversationally. “As you know, there are a num­ber of effective interrogation aids. Pain is only one. And actually, psychology and drug techniques have advantages over physical force. The choice of tool depends upon the subject being interviewed. Although torture can certainly get results from the majority of individuals, the results are unreliable; often people will say anything simply to stop the pain. Then of course, a few individuals with strong will and high pain tolerance can literally resist to the death. On you, for example, torture would be relatively useless. And you’d fight psychology with psychology. But the drug will undermine your resistance. How do you feel now, old boy?”

Detector didn’t answer. As Tremayne spoke, he could feel a slow sensation of drunkenness steal about the edges of his mind. He tried to shake it off, but only succeeded in making the room spin about himself. The vertigo lurched his stomach… _mother of god_ , he had to fight this. Anxi­ously his heart thudded in its rib-prison, even though he knew that only increased the flow of chemi­cal-poisoned blood to his brain. Weakly his head lolled back against the back edge of the chair. Pen­tothal’s characteristic taste of garlic painted the back of his nose and throat, while sleep beckoned so invitingly. Tremayne’s voice drifted away, as though muffled by cloth. He had to fight this… had to…

Gently a hand patted his face. “Wake up, David,” the pleasant voice urged. “Time to talk. C’mon.”

The room wavered woozily about Detector. He turned his head, and had to clutch the chair arms against the drunken disorientation that made him feel like he was going to slide down onto the floor. The world beyond three feet away blurred into double images.

“Damn you,” he swore tonelessly, and hoped that his thick tongue could get the words out. At least while he was conscious, he could control what came out of his mouth. It was what he might say while floating in the narcotic twilight that distressed him deeply.

“Now then, I’ve something for you to look at,” Tremayne was saying, and the sound distorted in and out through the drug-fog. He tossed a snapshot onto the table in front of David. Blearily Detector’s gaze shifted about the room, rather than focus on the photo.

“David,” the other man coaxed gently, slipping a presumptuous hand into Detector’s hair to hold his head still and make him look at the picture.

It was a candid snapshot of the man whom CIB was presently investigating in San Francisco: the Peruvian dealer Tomás Garcia, with some other gutter sleaze whom Detector didn’t recognize. It looked like a surveillance photo of a drug deal, taken without the subject’s awareness. Another photo landed on top of the first. Another. Woozily David looked at them, although his eyes hardly wanted to focus. Another. The locations were obviously San Francisco, streets and ocean-fronts that he re­cognized. Some of the faces with Garcia were familiar local players who tied into their investigation, others he didn’t know at all. Another.

He tried to pull away from the grip in his hair; he allowed no one to handle him like that against his will. But he had no strength. The drug sapped all muscle control.

Another photo before his drowsy eyes. “David, look. We know that your people are some­where in here, posing as Garcia’s connections. Tell me which ones they are. Look at the photos, David. Talk to me.”

Detector tried not to look. If Tremayne wanted some kind of recognitive reaction, he would refuse to give it. He knew the man was watching his eyes for some involuntary tell-tale giveaway. He would not respond, _would not_. In drugged exhaustion, he closed his eyes.

A smart slap knocked his head sharply; the grip in his hair jerked roughly. He grunted in pain, clutched the chair arms again to stop the world from spinning. Nausea from the pentothal squirmed in his stomach… god he was going to vomit…

“David,” the casual voice urged, “don’t go to sleep now. Come now, stay awake.” Another smack across the face. Heat flared in stinging cheeks. “Look, David.”

Eyes flickered open – right in front of a snapshot of X and Jack undercover with Garcia.  
And he responded with recognition. Against his will, but he responded. Valiantly he tried to cover the slip, but the drug made his body betray him, he was moving in slow-motion, which emphasized the normally imperceptible reaction.

Tremayne smiled at the helpless lapse, looked over the revealing picture himself, then held it up again before David’s sleepy face. “These are your men, aren’t they, David?”

Eyes cast down, gaze turned away. “No,” Detector asserted flatly, and could hardly get his tongue to overcome the pentothal-inertia.

“Don’t lie to me, old boy.” Tone innocuous and calm. “If you lie, I shall have to hurt you. Tell me who they are, David.” Another sharp pat to his face, knocking the world spinning once again, and Detector grabbed onto the chair for dear life.

“Tell me who they are, where to find them.”

“Go to hell,” Detector slurred drunkenly.

“David,” the man chided with the intimacy of old friendship, touching Detector’s secured right hand, stroking it almost suggestively, then fingers curled gently about Detector’s little finger.

. . . . .

_(to be continued)_


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detector, captured and bound, undergoes interrogation at the hands of his old teammate.
> 
> Again Tremayne held up the photo before David’s sleepy face. “These are your men, aren’t they, David?” “No,” Detector asserted flatly, and could hardly get his tongue to overcome the pentothal-inertia. “Don’t lie to me, old boy.” Tone innocuous and calm. “If you lie, I shall have to hurt you.”

Again Tremayne held up the photo before David’s sleepy face. “These are your men, aren’t they, David?”

Eyes cast down, gaze turned away. “No,” Detector asserted flatly, and could hardly get his tongue to overcome the pentothal-inertia.

“Don’t lie to me, old boy.” Tone innocuous and calm. “If you lie, I shall have to hurt you. Tell me who they are, David.” Another sharp pat to his face, knocking the world spinning once again, and Detector grabbed onto the chair for dear life.

“Tell me who they are, where to find them.”

“Go to hell,” Detector slurred drunkenly.

“David,” the man chided with the intimacy of old friendship, touching Detector’s secured right hand, stroking it almost suggestively. Fingers curled gently about Detector’s little finger – then with one savage yank, dislocated it sharply. David yelled, lurched half out of the chair in one blind­ing bolt of agony shooting up his arm.

Quivering in clear bright pain, he sagged back feebly, while the room whirled sickeningly about him. Eyes rolled back limply. He could not catch his breath as his chest heaved, could not control the tiny breathless whimpers breaking from his throat. With each heartbeat, pain pulsed its own wicked rhythm in his hand. Weakly he squirmed in his seat, trying to use mental control to overcome the throbbing agony, until Tremayne grasped his fingers again and squeezed them firmly to make him writhe with a choking cry.

“Now, let’s try it again, old boy,” the Englishman coaxed gently. “What are their names, and where can we find them?”

Detector glowered up at his interrogator, forcing bleary eyes to focus. Lips tightened.   “I… don’t… know…” he retorted, as crisply as the drug would let him.

“I’m sorry, David,” Tremayne replied. Then grasping the right ring finger, Tremayne jerked it too with a horrid snap; and Detector’s body wrenched again while a completely unwilled cry ripped from his throat. In desperation he fought through the narcotic dream-fog, nausea churning ominously in his belly; abruptly he couldn’t hold back any longer, humped forward and helplessly vomited down the front of his shirt and into his lap.

Finally after the spasm passed, he panted for breath, weak, trembling uncontrollably, while beads of sweat sheened his face and stained the armholes of this clammy shirt. Desperately he wanted to cradle his wounded hand against himself, but couldn’t. Nor could he stop the horrible drugged reverberations dancing inside his head. Raising unfocussed eyes to the bland sympathetic face of his torturer, he weakly spat a mouthful of bile onto the man’s clothes.

Tremayne ignored the insult; pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket to wipe the mess off, then leaned forward and considerately wiped the drool and sweat and blood from Detector’s face.

 

“You must coöperate, David,” he urged once more, “or I’ll have to hurt you again. Tell me about your people.”

Deliberately Detector looked away, jaw clenched against each throbbing stab in his hand, limbs twitching with palsied tremors.

So, this was what it came down to: a death of pain and ignominy, betrayed by a friend, a shallow stupid death devoid of meaning.

He had always just assumed that he would ultimately go out in a fire-fight, had always expec­ted to die on his feet. Not like this – tied up, drugged, helpless. The irony tasted bitter in his throat, more bitter than the bile. As dangerous as his life had been – ten years of intelligence work: Viet­nam, Cambodia, Thailand, now San Francisco – that it would lead to this mockery of a finale. Death itself was not the worst of it – he’d face death a number of times in those ten years, and had the scars to prove it. But to die like this, for nothing…

No, worse than that. He would die betraying his people, his friends. The drug and the con­tinuation of physical pain would assure that.

For as long as he could resist, he would, because of who he was, what he was. But finally, in the end, the drug would undermine his will as it had already sapped his strength. And then, after he had sold out his people and lived with that knowledge, he would die with that knowledge – would watch impotently as Tremayne refilled the syringe, then feel the fine sharp sensation as the needle pierced his vein once again to deliver a quiet lethal dose of sleep into his bloodstream; and little by little he would sense his body and mind succumb, all the while knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it, nothing he could do to recall his own bare confession… nothing he could do to protect his people from the brutal fruits of his betrayal.

And he thought about Racer X, and the rest of them back in the Bay Area, going about their jobs, unaware that their covers have been burned, themselves endangered, the investigation blown; and a terrible hurt constricted his ribs. They would die because of him – and that thought hurt worse than anything he had suffered or might suffer.

Maybe he should have confided in X after all, should have warned him what was going down. Maybe it had been a fatal error to leave him in the dark. But at least X’s radar was activated; at least Detector’s reticence had served to put him on full alert. Now he could only trust that his people would survive despite his surrendering of confidential information.

They were a good team, X and Jack Burns… Frank… and the others – they understood the dangers of this line of work. Hopefully they would not be caught off-guard. He had to believe that for his own stability of mind.

“Racer X and Jack Burns,” Tremayne mused. “That’s very good, David, you’re doing fine.”

Abruptly Detector roused to pain still throbbing grotesquely in his hand, and sour bile coating his mouth; damn, he’d drifted to sleep again… how long had he been out? a few minutes? an hour? more? Sodium pentothal played havoc with time-sense.

Head lolled weakly against the back of the chair. The light in the room had diffused to a pale yellow twilight – was it afternoon already? He thought he heard rain – yes, rain was clattering against the picture window behind him. The air was close, scented with the tang of ozone and coffee. A flash of lightning that branded the image of the room into his retinas in sharp relief, followed a moment later by a boom of thunder. So this was the monsoon Kohagen and his partner had talked about, the seasonal summer afternoon rain in this part of the country.

How long had he been unconscious? how much had he talked? And not all the calm reason­ing in the world could ameliorate the rush of guilty shame which flooded his mind. And _oh mother of god_ the pain in his _hand_ …

Tremayne had left his perch on the edge of the table; now stood a few feet to the side, drink­ing a cup of coffee and staring out the picture window at the downpour. On the tabletop sat the little recording device, humming, waiting for another word, another drugged mumble, another scream.

“Where do your friends live, David?” the Englishman inquired, taking up his seat once more   inform of his bound subject. Carefully he lifted the coffee cup to David’s lips, allowed him a few swallows to rinse away the bile taste. The drink was black and strong. “Tell me where to find these two detectives of yours.”

Chest heaved with tight respirations. “No.”

Setting the cup aside, Tremayne grasped his prisoner’s hand; and amid the pain that raced up his arm and straight into his solar plexus, Detector wondered which finger would be next. The grip increased gradually, and stars burst nova behind his eyes as dislocated bones grated against each other. Detector moaned, biting the inside of his lower lip to keep from screaming; squirmed uselessly to get out of the chair. Again he heaved helplessly, retching and groaning, until Tremayne released the grip, then collapsed back in the hard seat, gasping and sweating and trembling, while spittle drooled down his chin, and the room rotated and wobbled.

Another huge flash of blinding light, and right on top of it, a sharp boom. The storm was right on top of them now. A barrage of raindrops pounded the window.

“Please talk to me, David,” the man coaxed, “so we don’t have to keep on with this.”

Tightly Detector’s lips skinned back over his teeth, as he panted and tried to catch his breath. “Why should I ?” he managed to retort between gasps, barely able to mumble sleepily. “You intend to… torture me… and kill me… regardless… of what I say…”

“You needn’t die in pain, David. Answer my questions, and I’ll inject a dose of lidocaine into your hand, and put it to sleep. I can remove pain as easily as I inflict it.”

Drowsy flickering eyes watched his tormentor. “You already know… I won’t…coöperate… with you… Bastard…”

Tremayne only shrugged and agreed, “No one can last in this line of work who isn’t some­thing of a bastard. Now then, talk to me, old boy. You’ve already given me a great deal, but I’m afraid it’s not enough. You’ll have to tell me more.”

Another sharp electric crack, a sudden loud explosion of lightning – so loud that the electri­city must have actually struck an object on the ground – and simultaneously a huge burst of thunder.

“You’re… wasting your time…” David slurred drunkenly, slumped in his chair, “… go ahead… kill me now…” A droplet of sweat rolled down between his eyes, down the side of his nose, and he couldn’t raise a hand to wipe away the tormenting itch.

“Don’t be that eager to die,” the Englishman chided gently, lifting the dark-blond head by a finger under the goateed chin. “Come now, David, let’s just chat, as old friends ought to, shall we?” The touch trailed down Detector’s shoulder, down his arm to his wounded hand again, squeezed the crippled fingers until David screamed, bit his lip to blood. Consciousness hovered on the edge, while pain blood-red hazed before his eyes. Surrender beckoned invitingly, surrender and blissful ignorant sleep. He couldn’t control his body, but _oh god,_ he had to control his mind… _X, help me… help me please…_

And then miraculously X was there: rushed into the room, gun in hand, threw Tremayne down on the floor and cuffed him; the he was kneeling by David, undoing his bonds, caring for his broken hand and soothing with caring supporting words, although David couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. And David felt a warm welcome in X’s touch, heat rising, and David could smell the heat, the aroma sharp and piquant in his nostrils…

…but then Alex was up again… how had he slipped X’s cuffs? And where was X?… no, X hadn't been here at all… why couldn’t he think straight? What was wrong? Why did he have to fight so hard to organize his thoughts, as though he was struggling through thick cotton… he wanted X… he needed help…

A sharp alarm buzzed, shattering his meanderings, and he roused again to woozy conscious­ness, still bound in his chair, hard still throbbing fiercely, sour bile still running down back of his throat. And there was the smell of heat, the smell of woodsmoke.

The noise again – and this time he identified it as the phone ringing.

Turning the recorder off, Tremayne crossed the floor to the bar in the sitting room, and picked up the receiver. Drowsily Detector watched the double image, blinked uselessly to clear his vision. The hallucination was gone now, but the scent of smoke wafted stronger in the air.

“Yes?” the Englishman answered the ill-timed interruption impatiently, back turned to his pri­soner. For a moment he stood there, then stiffened abruptly, voice and stance suddenly animated. “Is the entire barn on fire?” he demanded. “Are the horses out yet?… well, damn you, get them out! Call in the crew from the west pasture. I’ll be there directly!” And dropping the handset back on the cradle, he strode out of the room, not even sparing a glance back at Detector slumped in the chair.

David heard the front door bang open and slam shut, then a moment later, the Jeep engine kicked into life.

And then, as he listened to the vehicle roar off, as he realized that he was alone for the first time, he carefully tried to level and steady his mind, thoughts shifting dispassionately from calm accep­tance of death, to astute rational plans for escape.

If he could tip the chair and break even one spindled arm, he might be able to slip one hand loose, then free himself. All his belongings, including the car keys, were spread on the table before him. He would drive back to St. George, praying that he could make it despite his condition – he had no choice – then contact Kohagen. Tremayne he would leave for later; and if in the meantime, Alex passed on any of the in­formation, so be it. That damage would have to be dealt with at another time.

Gathering what strength he could and bluntly ignoring the unremitting assault of aches and pains, he lurched to the left, away from his crippled right hand. The chair jostled, but didn’t fall. If it fell without breaking, he’d be trapped helplessly on the floor until Tremayne returned. Deliberately he refused to entertain that possibility. Tremayne was going to kill him anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

Another lurch with all his weight behind it. This time the chair tipped and crashed to the floor, cracking and shattering two of the spindles. The side of his head smacked the floor; pain stabbed his skull, and reality quivered sluggishly in nauseous drug-distortion. He fought the bile surge, swallowing and gasping; then gather in his concentration once again, tugged and tugged his bound left hand. Until finally the rope worked loose on the broken chair arm, and he was able to slip that arm free.

… that was half the battle… _thank god!…_ For awhile he rested, breathing hard, jaw tight against protesting nerves and muscles, collecting his orientation again before attacking the bonds tying his crippled agony-throbbing right hand… god, he wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t… had to keep going… had to… didn’t know how long before Tremayne would return… couldn’t even be sure how much time had elapsed since the man had left… _damn, he was drifting again_ … it felt like maybe half-a-minute, but it could have just as easily been half-an-hour… _just keep moving no matter what… just keep moving and don’t even think about the improbability of driving all the way into town drugged all to shit… just do it… do it…_

Gritting his teeth against the new pain bursting to florid life in his crooked twisted fingers, he used his good hand to tug at the knots, undo the velcro straps, work the ropes loose as best he could, despite the drug-induced clumsiness. A fingernail ripped bloody to the quick, jerking a curse from taut lips. By the time the ropes finally slackened enough to pull free, he was panting harsh near-whimpers and dripping with sweat. Limply he rolled out of the toppled chair onto the hardwood floor.

For awhile he just lay there in cloudy wobbly consciousness, swallowing blood and cradling his injured hand to himself, each pulse of nerves shooting agony straight to his brain. Teeth chattered quiveringly

He had to stop the pain – he couldn’t function with his hand on fire, couldn’t even think straight between that and the pentothal. Grasping his deformed little finger and setting himself as best he could for an explosion of agony, he jerked on it straight. Pain screamed up his arm, and he yelled and bit his lip again, tasted blood, body convulsed in a blinding shock wave, but at least he felt the joints slip back into place. A shuddering gasp of relief.

One down and one to go.

. . . . .

_(to be continued)_


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally Detector makes his escape, but how far will he get in the pouring rain, doped all to hell? 
> 
> Adrenalin pumping in his blood, now that he was up and moving, helped overcome some of the drug- and pain-inertia. He didn’t dare drift off now. Long-acquired combat readiness reasserted itself; ten years of survival in the Asian jungles where miscalculation meant death. And yet how could he overcome the pentothal-induced misperceptions, dulled reflexes…?

One down and one to go.

He had to do this – if he didn’t, he’d pass out long before he made it to St. George. He only hoped that he wouldn’t pass out right now from the pain of reducing the dislocations. Whatever addi­tional damage he might cause, the hospital in St. George would have to correct.

Carefully his left fingers curled about his right ring finger next, teeth gritted tightly – then he yanked sharply and writhed in blue-white excruciation. And then it was over; and when he could catch his breath, he could feel that the pain had been reduced a good fifty-percent. At least now he could occupy his mind with other concerns. Like escape.

Clutching a table leg with his good hand, he dragged himself up; grabbed the edge of the table to keep from passing out and falling, hunched over it sickly, weaving in nauseating grogginess. The world still shimmered woozily, refused to stabilize… god, how would he ever drive in this condi­tion…?

With his good hand, he stuffed his revolver into his waistband; the shoulder holster was use­less now -–it would hurt far too much to try to slip it on. Just his glasses, wallet, gun, and car keys – and the recorder tucked into the crook of an elbow – then get out of the house and try to make it to the car.

Muscles so weak… and vision that wouldn’t hold still… he reeled like a drunk, shuffling across the floor in the direction of the front door… staring tensely in concentration, trying not to lose his balance and fall on the way… he stumbled once and dropped to one knee, catching himself with his crippled hand and yelping in blasting pain… hunched over, holding the injured limb… he didn’t dare allow himself to just lie down and curl up on the floor like he wanted to do, or he’d never make it back up to his feet… forced himself to stand up again… wobbled to the door, then leaned against the jamb for blessed support while turning the knob.

A blast of hot muggy wind as he staggered out onto the wooden porch… heavy smell of woodsmoke and ozone. The rain had let up momentarily… if only it would hold off until he made it into town... Beyond the east hillock billowed a thick plume of greyish-brown smoke; he could hear in the distance the rumble of machinery and pumps, the screams of panicked horses, and beyond that, thunder moanings. Overhead, the afternoon thunderheads continued to pile up, yellow and grey and black.

A quick glance around – luckily no one was in sight. St. George was a good twenty-five miles away… he wondered how much of a head-start he had… he wondered how far he’d get before cracking up alongside the road.

Shambling down the steps and across the driveway, he made it all the way to the green Dodge before humping over abruptly with dry heaves, skinning his knees in the gravel, clutching the door handle. For a full minute, he couldn’t do anything but ride out the over-ruling convulsions, until his stomach finally settled down once more, leaving his shaking and sweating. Spitting out a foul mouthful of saliva and blood, he dragged himself back up, fumbled the key into the door lock with his left hand, cursing when he nearly dropped the keys as a shock of pain jolted up his arm from the bloody fingernail.

_… keep going… god… just keep going… have to keep going…_

Finally he got the door open and collapsed into the driver’s seat… so far, so good… Both hands throbbed hotly like rotten teeth, wrists burned from the chafing ropes, headache pulsed be­tween his eyes… dear god, all he wanted to do was get to a hospital as soon as possible.

Heavy fat raindrops spattered the windshield… bad enough driving DUI on a rain-slick road… but to contend with a downpour as well… he just prayed he’d still alive an hour from now.

It hurt like hell just to turn the key in the ignition, such a simple act now squeezing gut-wrenching agony through his right fingers, forcing a few drops of unwilled wetness from his eyes, and a grunt between clenched teeth, and he had to awkwardly use both hands to twist it hard enough. But finally the starter caught and kicked over, and the engine rumbled into life, echoed by a deep rumble in the sky as anvil clouds opened up a fusillade attack.

It hurt to activate the wipers, it hurt to release the handbrake and shove the gearshift into Reverse. And he didn’t even attempt the difficulty of fastening the seatbelt.

Stiffly he palmed the wheel, twisting the car in reverse, then roughly pushed it into Drive, and the vehicle lurched forward and started off down the dirt access road toward the highway a mile-and-a-half away.

His vision still reported double images, and the motion of the wipers only increased the bizarre wobbliness of his view as he fought to hold the Dodge straight and not drive off into the drainage ditch beside the road.

Adrenalin pumping in his blood, now that he was up and moving, helped overcome some of the drug- and pain-inertia. He didn’t dare drift off now. Long-acquired combat readiness reasserted itself; ten years of survival in the Asian jungles where miscalculation meant death. And yet how could he overcome the pentothal-induced misperceptions, dulled reflexes…?

Staccato rain attacked the car furiously, assaulted him through the open window – he didn’t dare let go of the steering wheel to roll up the glass; the darkened summer sky exploded a barrage of lightning. His already nauseated stomach squeezed tensely, while he gripped the wheel as best he could with throbbing hands, knowing he was weaving all over the road and unable to prevent it… today must be his day to die… if not by Alex Tremayne’s hand, then by his own… he only prayed he didn’t take some innocent motorist with him. At least Highway 9 would be nearly deserted – not at all like the interstate back home in the Bay Area. If he could just make it to the highway, maybe luck would materialize a state trooper nearby… certainly his present driving skill would catch a patrol­man’s attention.

Explosion of mortar fire lit the rain-blasted Vietnam sky, the retina-blinding flash of magne­sium flares, and David jammed the brake, swerved the vehicle… _god, no, no_ … this was the Utah desert, and the explosion only lightning and thunder…

He could tell that to his mind, but his heart still thumped heavily beneath his sternum, as the yawing rear-end of the Dodge fought for traction on the mud-gooey road… _god, be careful… have to make it back to town alive… can’t die now just because of some stupid hallucination…_

Water streamed down the windshield faster than the wipers could clear it; rain-filled chuck­holes jostled the car’s suspension. The road weaved giddily before him in the storm-dark afternoon.

His hands hurt so badly, stabbing thrusts of pain echoing his pounding pulse… and all he could think about was the little Thai village on another rainy evening – how many years ago? – and the fire-lit interior of the tiny wooden hut, as he struggled to survive torture, while a coarse prickly noose cruelly was choking him into terror-filled oblivion… even now, after all these years, the old memory pulled wetness from his eyes, and the remembered pain amplified the present fire crippling him.

His head dropped back weakly against the headrest… he just wanted to forget all of this and go to sleep… so simple to just let go… his eyelids started to drift shut…

A brilliant strobe-flash lit the landscape against a grumbling tympanic roar…

Detector jerked awake just as a tire hit another hole in the road… god, stay awake… don’t run over a land-mine… another explosion behind him… _god… god…_ frantic lungs dragged noisy breaths, pulling in the fetid stink of rotting jungle on the wet night air… roaring moving up from behind… who was overtaking him? his own squad, or Charlie…? He craned his neck back, but couldn’t see through the dense dark undergrowth… another flash of rocket fire; and in that split-second, a black-pajamaed VC leaped in front of the car. Detector jerked the wheel even as he realized he was driving off the desert road into a black-silhouetted clump of cactus. He swerved back in a spray of mud, breath dragging roughly from his throat… _blessed Mary, give me your protection, I pray, I pray…_

… where was the highway? how far had he come? how long had he been driving in this delir­ium? Narcotic-distortion confused his sense of time and distance, his sense of everything. He just wanted to make it back to California alive… hell, he’d be happy right now just to see the road to St. George.

Evidently his prayers caught Somebody’s ear, because up ahead in the darkness, he finally caught a glimpse of asphalt leading toward town… _thank you God thank you God_ … he was almost upon it… just a short way further…

But then the miracle failed him, as brightness flickered in his sideview mirror; he glanced into the glass and saw Jeep headlights coming up from behind, coming up fast; and another jolt of adrena­lin surged into his bloodstream. The metallic roar of the storm beating on his car drowned out the noise of the Jeep’s engine.

He floored the accelerator. Nothing mattered any longer. There were no other options. If he cracked up, so be it – Tremayne was going to kill him anyway, if he got to him.

Beneath him the Dodge bucked and lurched, and jumped forward. He tried to steer left across the intersection onto the highway, but as the tires hit the wet asphalt, they hydroplaned, and the car spun out. Desperately he fought to hold the vehicle steady, even as he felt it slide sideways on the slick roadway; watched in cold horror as the deadly pair of halogen beams blazed toward his exposed left side. The heavy front-end of the four-by roared down on him to crush in the driver’s side of the Dodge; he swerved to evade; tires skidding out of control across the asphalt and the muddy shoulder, then the vehicle ran into the side-ditch and slammed hard into a large yucca clump.

The steering wheel shoved him roughly back in the seat; blinding pain surged through his body, breath knocked out of paralyzed lungs; shock stunned him momentarily.

Patter of rain on metal… hiss of steam from crushed radiator… drone of engine running on uselessly… smell of wet sage… smell of hot oil. Cheek resting against the steering wheel… rain spitting in his face through the open window… blood dribbling into his right eye, oozing from both nostrils. Pain lancing through skull, zagging down neck and spine.

At least, he considered, he was still alive to experience the pain.

At least for the moment.

Crunch of footsteps on wet sand. He couldn’t even lift his head to face his executioner. From his hunched position, he watched the tall slender man approach the wrecked vehicle through the downpour. Silver hair clung wetly to a high forehead, right hand carried a nickel-plated automatic. The man was in no hurry, not even in the rain. His victim wasn’t going anywhere.

Detector just lay there and bled, watching Tremayne come up to the car window, crippled hand groping clumsily in his lap, barely able to move even that much.

“I’m surprised to you got this far, David,” the man commented mildly over the hiss of the rain. “But you never would have made it back to town. Just consider that I’m giving you an easy end, rather than you running off the road somewhere alone and bleeding to death slowly.”

Then the pistol raised, and Detector watched his old friend behind the gun, and he watched the steel muzzle aim at his head; then, very matter-of-factly, squeezed the trigger of his own gun lying his lap.

The discharge roared inside the car, muzzle belched an orange explosion of flame, gun bucked sharply in his injured hand. Tremayne’s body jerked like he’d just received a mule-kick to the belly, a look on his face of dull surprise, and abruptly he was flung backward into the mud like a heavy dirt-filled sack.

And Detector just hunched there in pain, wanting only to surrender now, everything hurt so badly. He wondered if his face was broken, ribs cracked, lungs punctured. He wondered if his ear­drums were blasted by the roar; he wondered if the revolver’s kick had fractured his wrist – he even wondered if he’d shot himself while trying to aim by feel. He thought his right fingers were disloca­ted again, left hand burned by the muzzle flash. The hot barrel resting on his lap was burning his thigh, so he dropped the gun to the car floor.

Then he did the only thing left to do. He passed out.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detector awakens in the hospital, the ordeal finally over. But what was the Company's real objective in sending him in in the first place?

Bright sunlight washed antiseptic white walls when David opened his eyes. Finally his vision was normal, he decided, as he stared up at the ceiling from his hospital bed – at least in his left eye. Through his puffy right eye he could only see a slit, but even that was welcome.

To the side, an IV machine clicked steadily as it dripped its fluids into his arm; overhead, monitors hummed quietly as they registered his vital signs. He still hurt, but nowhere near like be­fore. All the pain and discomfort had settled down to a dull ache which kept time with his pulse.

Vague recollections flitted through his mind, sensations of being handled, strapped to a back­board, oxygen mask fitted to his face, bumpy ambulance ride – although he hardly remembered any of that, he must have passed out again from the pain – then brief flashes of a hospital ER and people doing things to him; shapes and shadows in the dark, as he drifted in and out through the hours be­tween that elsewhere world and reality.

Until now, as reality finally decided to settle down and coalesce. With a sigh, he took a deep breath and wondered why hospitals always smell the same.

“Welcome back, David,” a familiar voice greeted from the foot of the bed.

Detector shifted his gaze – grateful that the room remained steady for the first time – to see McClain and the curly-headed man, Charlie Kohagen, seated across the room. At his responsive reaction, they arose and strolled closer.

“So, how was the beauty rest?” the older man quipped negligibly.

Detector only frowned at him, slightly disoriented, wondering if he was back in San Francisco already. Gaze flickered over both men smiling down at him.

“Where – ” he started to ask, but the word emerged as a croak from his oxygen-burned throat; he winced and had to swallow, then finally settled for a hoarse whisper over sore puffy bitten lips: “… where am I?”

A friendly hand patted his gown-clad shoulder.

“You’re at St. George Dixie Regional Hospital. Highway trooper found you and Tremayne last night. He was going to book you for DUI and homicide, but Kohagen intercepted the case and told UHP confidentially to forget they every saw it. Interdepartmental coöperation – you know.”

Tired eyes drifted shut. He could feel his right hand splinted with a brace, left hand ban­daged. As long as he didn’t try to move his fingers, the pain was minimal. Adhesive strips pulled on his face.

“You knew Tremayne was selling information to a Peruvian drug cartel,” he accused flatly. Another swallow to ease sore throat. “That’s what you wouldn’t tell me.”

“Menton was investigating a Sonora-Lima pipeline,” Kohagen admitted. “We knew your friend was involved, but we didn’t know how deeply. What did you find out?”

Ignoring the question, Detector shifted his attention past the Utahan agent to rivet his own ex-operator. Even through one open eye, the blue gaze still lasered intently. “You knew what I walking into, and you didn’t tell me the truth.”

McClain shrugged. “Hell, David, I told you he’d gone rogue,” the stout man retorted. “You just didn’t want to believe that about your old buddy. Tell us, what _did_ you walk into? Doc says you were doped to the gills on pentothal plus a cocktail of some experimental drugs, when they brought you in last night. Oh, by the way… we, uh, retrieved the recorder.” He paused, obviously expecting a reaction from Detector.

But Detector just glanced away, his one open eye bright and sullen. The rhythmic pain-throb in his skull continued to demand attention.

“You wanna tell us about that, David?” McClain pumped. “He play some games with you? What did he get out of you?”

“You heard the recording,” the man in bed retorted bluntly, “ – you know better than I do what he got out of me.”

“Yeah, you sounded pretty juiced.” McClain grinned shallowly. “Most of the stuff’s about your team back in Frisco – no doubt the Peruvians are expanding their operations into your neck of the woods. But besides what’s on the recording, what else did he want to know? How much did he ask about your investigation? How long did it take him to figure out who sent you in?”

“Not long at all.” Moustached lips tightened angrily. “You sent me in without telling me you already had an operation going against him. Alex didn’t kill Menton because of Mae Sai – he killed him because of the investigation. You neglected to tell me that.”

Thrusting hands into jeans pockets, Kohagen commented, “We didn’t know how much Men­ton said before he died. For all we knew, he could’ve given up the entire operation to Tremayne, so we couldn’t risk that you might give away something that Menton might not have.”

“Whatever Alex wanted from Menton, he got,” Detector muttered tersely, voice guttural with pain and irritation.

“That’s right,” McClain nodded. “Which is why your briefing was kept to a minimum. The less you knew, the less Tremayne could pull out of you. You’re lucky he didn’t start carving on you like he did Menton. He probably decided, after interrogating you about your own people, that you didn’t have anything else to give him.”

“But that’s not why you withheld information from me,” the European accused. “You wouldn’t have given a shit if he had cut me up.” Belligerently the ice-blue stare nailed the two Com­pany men. “You did it to set me up – you set both of us up.”

“That’s not true, David.”

“What was your real objective, McClain? For me to investigate Menton’s death… or for two ex-Company agents to conveniently wipe each other out?”

“Of course not. You’re still talking dopey, Detector. Stuff’s still fucking up your brain – ”

“You expected both of us to go down, didn’t you? The last survivors of Mae Sai. Tie up all the Company’s loose ends for you. You probably even set Menton up too.”

“Mae Sai was a long time ago.”

Blue fire sparked up, voice gritty.

“Mae Sai was yesterday.”

Leaning forward, the big man squeezed and patted a shoulder again. “Get some rest, David. You’ll feel better after your body’s had a chance to flush out that junk. We can wrap up the debrief­ing later. Doc wants to keep you here another couple of days to make sure the crash didn’t knock anything else loose. Then just file your report and expense-voucher with Kohagen, and you’ll be free to go back home. Say, would you like to listen to the recording before your write your report? We can bring it down for you, if you want.”

Mental discomfort creased Detector’s brow, tightened his gut. The last thing he needed to hear right now was the evidence of his shame: his drug-slurred voice selling out his own people, the grotesque crack of his bones snapping – a jolt of phantom pain shot through his hand and up his arm at the brutal vivid recollection, and his jaw clenched reactively – the replay of his screams and yells and vomiting, captured on a few damning feet of magnetic tape, filed away to be preserved forever in the Company vaults, no doubt. Perversely he wondered how many times McClain and Kohagen had already listened to it.

Besides, he could only report what he remembered, anyway. Whatever he’d said while un­conscious would only be considered hearsay – not something he could testify to.

“You want Kohagen to bring it over later today?” McClain offered again.

Lips tightened beneath thin moustache. “No. I don’t need it.”

“Whatever. Oh, and don’t worry about the accident report. We’ll take care of the car and the DMV.” Another pat to his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a nap right now, David? You look like you could use it. One of us’ll stop by again this afternoon… check in on you. Oh – and, uh, don’t make too many passes at the nurses – okay?”

Grimly Detector looked away, and refused to acknowledge his visitors’ departure.

* * * * *

 _to be continued_ …


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detector returns home, and he and X quickly try to make up for lost time, as they solidify their new relationship.

EPILOGUE:

“God, David, what happened to you?” X exclaimed for the third time that evening, as Detec­tor reëntered the bedroom from the shower, toweling his hair. “God, look at you!”

Tossing the towel into the hamper just inside the bathroom door, David strolled naked over to his partner lying on the large futon, not bothering to mask the slight limp of his left leg or his injured bandaged right hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged aside X’s concern and curiosity.

“Of course it matters,” X retorted, naked as well, head and shoulders propped against the headboard. “You run out without a word, then reappear five days later looking like a one-man com­mando squad,” – an appraising hand ran carefully over the scarred slender hard body standing beside the bed – “hell, you look like a one-man war-zone.”

David eyed the tracing fingers skimming numerous blemish marks on chest, abdomen, thighs. “Most of those are old,” he commented off-handedly. “You saw them last week.”

“Yes, but not these.” Gently the touch explored a large livid area splotching the left hip-bone, the right little- and ring-fingers taped together, other abrasions and bruises obviously fresh. “What happened?” he reiterated, “ – did you get run over by a Mack truck?”

“It was Jeep Wrangler,” the blond man corrected, lifting his lover’s hand to moustached lips and kissing it. “And he didn’t run me over – he ran me off the road. But don’t worry, he got the worst of it.”

“Shit… the worst of what?… and why?”

“We had a disagreement.”

“What about? Road rage? Jeez, remind me to never cut you off on the freeway.”

But David just ignored the questions.

Shaking his head in surrender, X smiled up at the fair-formed visage now marred by a dis­colored right eye and a half-healed gash slicing down through the right eyebrow and cheekbone which would probably leave its scar as a permanent memento.

“You don’t intend to tell me what happened or where you’ve been these past five days, or anything, do you?”

“No.”

Another kiss to the hand gripped in his, then David knelt down and touched his lips to the flat belly of the man on the bed, causing X to spasm slightly and chuckle. As though studying some de­tail of great import, Detector stroked a light finger over the spot which had triggered the desired reac­tion, then feather-kissed it again, and his helpless victim jerked even harder and couldn’t stifle an in­voluntary laugh.

“Hey!” the brunet protested beneath the merciless assault of lips and tongue and prickly mou­stache, as David discovered another sensitive trigger-point an inch away from the first to center his attention on. “Damn, David, you’ll get me all excited, if you keep that up.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” – testing the area with a stroking finger, then bending down to prod a firm wet tongue against it.

Again X squirmed. “Yes, but – !” he blurted, then grabbed David’s head to momentarily in­terrupt the tickling. “But first you’ve got to answer my questions.”

Shifting up closer to X’s face, David started nipping and sucking and tonguing the side of a strong neck. “Before I left, you said you wanted to talk about us. Let’s talk about that.”

Pleasuring in the blond man’s touch, X slipped hands down smooth shoulders, lean flanks, urged his lover onto the bed. “Is there an ‘us’?”

“Do you want there to be?”

Another kiss, and X hissed a breath, eyes closed, feeling the futon shift as David climbed stiffly over him to lie beside him. “I know I want you, David.”

“You’ve got me.” Sliding an arm across X’s trim well-muscled body, David drew it closer; rolled to one side to nuzzle into a clean-smelling neck and shoulder. “I told you I don’t participate in one-night stands.”

“That sounds good to me,” X proclaimed. And slipping both hands into dark-blond hair, X let the damp strands feather through his fingers. Eagerly he pulled the fair high-cheekboned face to his, and met David’s kiss, hard and intense – a kiss which attempted to make up for all the hours apart. At the erotic sensation, his cock stirred. Sensually David’s tongue flicked his lips, darted in and out of his mouth – another pulse of blood surged into X’s cock – then kissed all over the edges of his lips, and X moaned helpless wonderful dissolution.

Responsively he nuzzled into the blond hair, kissed the side of David’s head again and again, tugged the fine strands with his lips, before David urged them face-to-face one more, and thrust his tongue deep into X’s mouth. An electric sizzle lanced straight down to X’s crotch, and he couldn’t help but groan as his phallus swelled to attention.

Then swinging a leg over, David rolled on top, kneed X’s legs apart, settled down comforta­bly, then returned to his wet exploration of X’s face and neck.

“David…” the man beneath sighed helplessly, happily, and wrapped his arms around the lean body covering him.

Gently David’s hips began rocking, thrusting, rubbing his half-hard cock against his partner’s coarse pubic hair and comparable bulk.

“…god, David…” X managed a little more profoundly, then moaned and arched up to return the other man’s pressure; and their cocks stiffened and rubbed together, satin length for satin length. “… David…”

Another firm wet nuzzle beneath his left ear – interrupted barely for a moment for a quick interrogative: “What?” – then hard teeth nipped the corner of his jaw, sending a shiver across lightly tanned skin, followed by a second harder shiver as fingertips skated down his flank.

“… oh god, David…” was the best answer X could formulate at the time, moaning when the touch slipped down into his groin. Eagerly his knees flexed and spread, while David hunched up a little to get a better grip on the situation.

Resting one forearm alongside X’s body, and leaning his weight against the inside of a knee, David stroked his free hand over the rising cock and balls. Again X made a little noise and writhed sensually as the exploring fingers spread out over his hefty swelling scrotal sac, then curled gently around his shaft. Maddeningly slowly, the fist squeezed down to the base, pulling the foreskin down taut, then slipped back up again, and fingers slid over the soft spongy head – tip of the forefinger snugged just barely inside the keenly tender opening. A sharp intake of breath hissed between X’s teeth.

A crystal-blue sidelong glance shifted up to a hazel-eyed face to ascertain if the gasp was pain or pleasure, then as pleased lips pulled into a smile, David shifted his attention back to the point of in­terest. A bubble of pre-sem pearled at the hole; David’s finger massaged the slippery fluid all over the velvet head, then probed into the inverse ‘V’ of the corona.

“… oh!…” X gasped sharply, and jerked his hips spasmically, “… that’ll make me come, David… I don’t want to come yet…”

“Then don’t,” the blond man whispered, and punctuated the pronouncement with a light slap to the inside of X’s thigh opposite the one he was leaning against. In pleasant surprise, X grunted as the sting excited him.

Then slipping his hand to himself, David began slowly pumping his own shaft while X watched eagerly. The long slender fingers grasped the erect flesh jutting out of the brown curly un­dergrowth, milked it a few slow strokes, interspersed a couple of vigorous motions, squeezed a leak­age of pre-sem out of the tip, then another three or four slow passes, smearing the slick juice all up and down the hard cock, then pushed down a little further to heft and coddle and squish a swollen testicle sac. A careful sigh escaped his lips as he masturbated, forcefully working the fleshy scrotum, kneading it, pressing it against hard pubic bone, then returning the massage to the throbbing leaking phallus.

To X’s crotch, the visual stimulation was nearly as potent as his own recently interrupted phy­sical stimulation. He could feel his cock twitch in anticipation. His breath rasped noisily just like David’s. From his position lying on his back, his hands couldn’t reach his lover’s genitals, so he set­tled for fondling rose tits on a pale chest, pinching them – one, then the other, back and forth, harder, harder – tweaking them, twisting them, tugging them, knowing by David’s grunts that he was creat­ing just the right sensation.

Slipping his hand to the back of a dark-blond head, he urged the fair face up to his, kissed moustached lips; and now it was his turn to lick and tongue provocatively, while one knee drew into his partner’s warm crotch and sensually rubbed heavy balls.

David’s throat made a sound; his caressing hand slipped from his own flesh to stroke X’s knee and press it closer to tingling organs. Obligingly X worked it in harder, then pulled David back on top of him and sucked him mouth to mouth.

“God, you’re beautiful, he murmured against warm wet lips.

David parted them just a fraction, looked into hazed-over eyes. “Just a minute ago, you said I looked like a one-man war-zone.”

Muscular shoulders shrugged. “Yes, well, you do…” – an exploring tongue examined a freshly-shaven cheek, “but you’re still damn good-looking, Inspector. Too good-looking for me to resist… or live without, boss…” Wet mouth caressed, tongue flicked out to trace a wet trail over high cheekbones, while two pairs of arms gathered each other close.

Kissing X’s temple, David’s mouth nuzzled into short brunet hair, then strong white teeth nipped a earlobe. “Not your boss tonight,” he corrected, voice raspy and low. “Your lover.”

“Not my boss, huh?” Mischief glinted in twinkling eye. “Well, in that case… lover…” – jaw tightened authoritatively – “I want you to fuck me into oblivion… right now.”

Instead, the lithe body arched up a little, and the flat of a hand smacked again lightly, this time on one hip.

“Who do you think you’re giving orders to?” the blond man chided mildly, a tiny glint barely peeking through the dark seriousness of intense blue eyes, sternness of down-turned mouth.

Tongue firmly in cheek, X’s tough set-of-jaw melted helplessly into a grin, and he shrugged again, not the least bit abashed; ventured once more, “Please, sir, fuck me into oblivion, Inspector, sir… please…boss?”

“We’ll see,” the level retort shot back, and a hard swollen groin thrust up against the captive one beneath.

Playful grin wrinkled brunet features naughtily. “God, I love it when you dominate me like that, Inspector… boss… sir…”

“Oh, do you.” It was not quite a question. “Well, from now on, we’ll have lots of nights to explore that possibility.” Another demanding thrust. “I promise you, Detective.”

The man beneath wriggled in pleasure. “I was hoping you’d say that, Inspector… sir… lover…” A deep inspiration expanded X’s chest; exhaled across David’s hair and ear. “Damn, David,” he pronounced, voice rougher that normal, “I don’t want to lose you.” A humorless little chuckle. “I wish you could promise me you’re not going to run off like that again every time the Company snaps its fingers.”

The European man said nothing; rubbed a hand up and down his lover’s sleek nearly-hairless torso.

X glanced over at the dark-blond head nuzzling into the hollow of his shoulder. “You aren’t going to promise that, are you?”

“No.” Warm moist lips caressed his sternum, sending wonderful sensations through his nerves.

“You’re not even going to admit it _was_ the Company that just called you, huh? But you _are_ still Company-active, aren’t you?”

David’s hand slid down X’s side, hip, thigh, while he deliberately engrossed his attention in kissing X’s breast.

“Damn,” X sighed, let his fingers draw aimless designs on a lean muscular back. “I’ve lost friends on the track, lost some to the cartel; I gave up my family – they don’t even know I’m alive… I just don’t want to think about something happening to you now.”

“Then don’t think about it.” A matter-of-fact answer along with a brief peck to one erect nip­ple, punctuated by another sigh from its owner; then David straightened again to lie beside the brunet, arm over X’s chest, thighs still holding X’s knee against an aching groin. “Either one of us could go down tomorrow,” he reminded plainly. “But you’re not going to stop doing your job because of it… and neither am I.” His grasp on X’s body tightened. “I’ve lost people, too, X.”

The brunet nodded, a lot of memories painfully close to the surface right at that moment; returned the warm pressure. “I know you have, David.”

Reaching his bandaged hand across X’s chest, David opened the drawer of the bedside table and withdrew a tube of lubricant, which he handed to his partner.

“You first.”

A suspicious grin tugged the corner of thin lips, as X opened the tube and began applying the quickly-warming jelly to his own groin area. “Me first what?”

Taking a glob himself, David slipped a few fingers between X’s legs, fisted a thick cock over-ready for some real action, and worked a couple of long lubricating strokes up and down.

“Your turn first, Detective, to fuck _me_ into oblivion.”

The lopsided grin widened. “Yes sir, Inspector sir!” X acknowledged quickly, one portion of his anatomy already at full attention. “Mine not to reason why, mine just to do… or die, if I don’t get my load off pretty soon!”

“X…”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

Greasing up a couple of fingers, X pushed them down deep between David’s thighs, under his balls, slicking the warm moist skin between scrotum and ass, then up into gluteal cleavage. Another grin; sensual touch teasing a puckered anus, and sliding in, making David grunt with the sharp in­tense sensation.   An earlobe nipped, as the probing digit pushed in further, lips nuzzled an ear, soft playful voice whispered, “But it’s hard to shut up, when I want to tell you how good you feel inside … how hot!… how wet… and how much I want to shove my cock up in there and fuck your brains out… sir…”

David grunted, lurched hips on the greasy probe; a breath hissed between clenched teeth, eyes half-closed. “Just do it…” he managed to grunt, “… before it’s too late…” Copious pre-sem was dribbling down his aching swollen shaft. Then the rubbing finger pushed deeper and nudged his pro­state, and a short unwilled little cry broke from his lips: “… oh!…”

“C’mon,” X murmured, withdrawing his hand now, and sliding on top, wrapping his arms around the steel-hard body under him. “Let me make you feel good… I just want to make you feel real good…” Hips began little thrusting motions, squeezing cock to cock, then David’s knees splayed on either side of X’s pelvis, and the blond man angled his ass to open himself up to his lover.

A leaking wet glans touched the greasy entrance; then carefully X pressed and rocked until the sphincter gave way, and his desperate flesh sank in an inch. Now both men moaned helplessly as the little muscle ring gripped the intruder just behind the ridge, and a fine trembling quivered surface nerves.

“X…” David breathed, eyes drifting shut, feeling the solid shaft begin to rub its way into him.

X only moaned, finally giving up trying to talk and fuck at the same time. The slick satiny tunnel was squeezing his cock, coaxing him to increase the speed and intensity of his rocking, to get into its wet depths before he lost all control and shot his load barely inside the opening.

Their bodies humped together, harder, faster. Breath gasped hard, noisily, as they pounded in sync, slammed against each other.

Pulling his hands from beneath David’s weight, X rested his forearms on either side of the blond head, panting through his mouth, sweat rivuletting down his face and body. He was already so close to climax that it only took a minute before need surged over the line-of-no-return into demand, and usurped control. A few vigorous power-thrusts, sliding back almost all the way out, then ram­ming back in hard and deep into the warm channel… hips lurched off the bed with each assault, and X could feel the large solid bulk of David’s phallus grinding mercilessly between their bodies, slimy with sweat and pre-cum, probably rubbed raw from coarse pubic hair.

Then grabbing the back of X’s head with one hand, David forced the brunet head down to his own, jammed his tongue all the way into X’s mouth; X groaned once in absolute surrender, then sear­ing white light exploded behind his eyes, balls tightened convulsively, painfully, while warm wetness jetted into welcoming flesh, hard spurts, shooting deep within. David made a sound as the creamy fluid squirted up him; tightly he clenched his anus while X bucked into him; kept raping X’s mouth with his tongue, fingers firmly clutching short hair, until finally X’s body lost tension, and he col­lapsed on top of David’s chest in a sweaty panting boneless mass.

“Ohhh…” X moaned, when he could finally grab enough air to speak. “I don’t know… about you… but I think I… fucked myself… into oblivion… ohh goddd…” Chin propped on David’s sweaty chest, X could feel his own breath radiate back on his damp face. Weakly he squirmed a little on top of David’s still-swollen piece, and remarked, “You haven’t come yet?”

“No… not yet…” David denied huskily, panting with his own exertion. “But I’m about to… just as soon as… I can get it up your ass…” One more slap to a sweaty ass-cheek. “C’mon, roll off,” he urged, hand resting on nice firm gluteal muscle, “change places…”

With a long exhausted moan, X obligingly slipped off, only to collapse face-down on the pil­low.

“I’m all yours, David…”

“I know,” the blond man asserted simply.

Then possessively grasping either side of X’s slim hips, David pulled his lover to him, pressed groin-to-ass, nudged his thrumming dripping cock into a warm crevice, slid his hands down to spread the clammy flesh and use his thumbs to force open the moist little rosebud hole. A long moan of delicious limp ecstasy issued from X’s throat as the heavy shaft pushed in to claim its terri­tory. In and out, in and out, deeper, deeper, the crown ridge rubbing back and forth against the cling­ing satiny sheath, eliciting tiny little whimpers from the man in front. One hand moved across X’s panting belly; the other slid down the front of his groin, down behind his balls, to grasp him there and angle him just right for the invading organ.

Intent on climax now, David jerked his hips forward, grunting with each lurch into X’s ass, impaling him, pulling out to the coronal flange as X tightened his anus, then thrusting in again as deep as he could get; every muscle tense and quivering.

Just a few plunging strokes; then orgasmic fire surged like molten lava, exploded from his cock, and he pounded mindlessly into the greasy gripping channel, shooting his thick fluid up inside. Wave after wave of sweet ecstasy stinging through his organ, up into his belly, into his brain; mous­tached lips skinned back over clenched teeth in a grimace of pleasure and exertion; hands clutching the firm masculine body to himself, ramming into it mercilessly to empty his pent-up load.

Eagerly X took it up the ass, fingers clutching the bed-clothes for dear life, every buck of David’s pelvis nearly knocking him into the headboard. Grunts and gasps jolted from his throat, matching the desperate moans of the man behind, as the steel piston rammed him full, as the gripping hands squeezed his waist and crotch, as the hot breath steamed over his neck and shoulders.

A few more pushes up into warm wetness, holding onto the last lingering sensations until they drifted away; unexpectedly, teeth nipped the juncture of X’s neck and left shoulder, and he laughed and spasmed as a sudden icy shiver lanced through his nerves. Then, with a final moan of fulfill­ment, David withdrew his sated organ and rolled off onto his back, mouth gulping air, chest heaving, drowsy eyes half-shut.

Propping an elbow under his head, X grinned down at his bed-partner and proclaimed, “Damn for an invalid, you sure got athletic! At least we know there’s one part of your anatomy that’s not damaged. How is the rest of you doing?”

“It’ll survive,” the fair-complected man assured between gasps, rubbing an aimless hand over five-day-bruised ribs, then released a long deep sigh.

Little tongue-tip flicked out, hazel eyes twinkled. “You’re still not going to tell me shit about what happened, are you?” X nudged one more time.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Blond head rolled slightly on the pillow. “You don’t have a need to know.”

“Like hell I don’t!” the other man protested, one arm snaking out to grab its victim, other hand tousling soft sweaty hair. Devilish grin lit bright eyes, lips and teeth and tongue ravished a cap­tive ear. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Sapphire-chipped eyes glinted sidelong; two words sealed the conversation peremptorily:

“I know.”

* * * * * FINIS * * * * *


End file.
